


The True Lives of the Killjoys Weren't That Fabulous

by revengefrankislife



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Pete Wentz - Fandom, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: M/M, brencer if you listen when gabe talks but, i have said too much, nobody but bill does anyway so, there's also minor mentions of the rest of fob but, they're more memories than characters, tw minor violence. not much tho, tw transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revengefrankislife/pseuds/revengefrankislife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In the final days of the Helium Wars, and shortly after the disappearance of Australia, Better Living Industries unveils Battery City, a shining utopia free of decisions and emotion and capital of the entire remnants of America. A triumph threatened only by a young orphan girl with a terrible secret. Running from the corporation, she befriends seven freelance anarchists; children born of violence and rock and roll. Last year, marking the anniversary of his third year serving the city, Better Living Industries' top exterminator Korse returned the orphan in one of the four acceptable levels of dead (of which one is classified.) Our heroes tear through the outer zones, sworn to avenge and born to kill.<br/>The future relies on these seven bandits, known only as: The Fabulous Killjoys."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cobra Starship are the underground equivalent of a less bloody Mafia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [our lord and savior mikeyway](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=our+lord+and+savior+mikeyway).



> This is an AU of an AU. Quite a few of these things don't fit with the canon Danger Days universe. Pointers: the Girl in this universe was already killed by Korse, so there's now only the Fab Four (and obviously the other characters.) Comic Book Spoilers¬ – Dr. D and Cola are still alive (end spoilers.) The character mentioned as Planetary was created and designed by the tumblr user @planetary_party and I was given permission to use it with credit. I’ll link the art at the end of the works (you should check it out; it’s one of my fave fanon killjoys.) There were also no bands before the Helium Wars – no My Chem or Fall Out Boy (I like seeing that Pete had a record label who signed the bands P!ATD and Cobra Starship, who were bands before the Helium Wars, but that’s up to you. My point is that FOB members have never met MCR members.) Upon studying the comics to try and get upmost accuracy for the parts I wanted accurate, I couldn't tell the gender of the character of Vamos at all, and was only half-certain Vaya was female, so I just made them male (Vamos) and female (Vaya) twins. My face claim for Cherri Cola is William Becket. I did try and make the map accurate but only halfway through writing did I remember the actual location of the diner, so you’ll have to forgive me for attaching it to the station. It’s four in the morning and I’m haven't slept. also reading this back i've come to the conclusion that it's way better written than the actual fanfic. double-also yes i did change the intro bc in this the girl is dead.

Pete is fucking tired of running.

When you have just less than two years of disorganised, terrifying, run-now-talk-later-or-get-shot chaos, it’s kind of easy to get bored of things, because all of the un-boring things are either dead, illegal, or cost more carbons than Pete thought was humanly possible to have. All he had left was Patrick’s voice and the rumour of the key they were looking for. He wasn't calling Patrick’s voice boring per say – because come _on_ , the dude was practically an angel – but he missed _other_ music. He missed having a song so loud you could feel the bass line shaking your body; feel the drum beat thumping through your chest. Andy used to play meaningless rhythms out to the three of them on a container that had been filled with spiders and empty cans of power pup, but it wasn't the same as what he wanted it to be. They didn't do that anymore, though. Andy and Joe went on a scavenger hunt on the day Andy had claimed being sick of not having drumsticks. They went out for water, because Pete had passed out from dehydration earlier and been forced to drink an entire bottle, leaving them with only five. Joe came back empty handed, a gash on his forehead, tears staining the dust on his cheeks and Andy’s bloody bandana scrunched up in his back pocket.

Andy didn't come back at all.

Pete was angry. Patrick was upset. Joe was numb. They didn't talk about it.

They dealt with it in their own respective ways, some better than others, but they never brought it up. That was a mistake. Neither of them ever asked Joe if he was doing okay, because doing so meant bringing up Andy, and whilst Patrick couldn't do that without bursting into tears, Pete couldn't do it without a) punching a wall or b) sticking a gun down his throat. It turned out, actually, that Joe had found a rather large stash of BL/ind pills under the floorboards of the old hotel (their base at the time.) On the same day that Pete dyed his hair pink, Joe overdosed. But everything was okay, because they wrapped up his body and burnt it – a proper outlaw’s funeral, one where a drac couldn't find your body and exploit it for the latest Korse branded magazine.

Except it wasn't okay. Being alive doesn't always count as living.

“The sun’s just gone down. Patrol’s in a few hours, and this is gonna be a Scarecrow hotspot once they see the spirit smoke,” Patrick muttered, bending down to check the lace on his boot was double-knotted. “We should go.” And he was right, because he was always right, but Pete didn't want to go. The three of them had spent countless days decorating the dusty wooden walls with the cans of graffiti paint they’d found in a body bag on Route Guano. It had been Joe’s idea. He didn't want to leave Joe’s memory for someone else to wreck. It was all they had left of him, other than another bandana – almost identical to Andy’s white one; apart from the fact that it had a lot less blood and the letter pattern was J.T. instead of A.H. They all had different coloured ones – it had been a meaningless best-friend gesture before the Helium Wars, but now it was what had them tied together.

“Pete?” Patrick said quietly, adjusting his gun holster and tugging down his beanie. “We have to burn the building down,” he said flatly, jumping to his feet and slinging their bag of supplies (three bottles of water, some of Joe’s old comics, a can of power pup, a handful of carbons and the cans of paint) over his shoulder. “For Joe?” came the response, the nod small but firm when Pete confirmed it. “We gotta do it now, though. It should shoot right up, so do a quick scan and make sure we’ve not left something we could give to Chow Mein for food. I’ll go get the matches.” They separated with nothing more than a nod, not caring that matches were valuable enough to get them something other than power pup to eat (which was rare.) Joe would have laughed at the idea – one of those huge, whooping laughs that roughly translated into _this is **brilliant**_. So they had to do it.

It was quick and simple; Patrick actually smiling at him when he found a power pup can duct taped shut that was full of oil. Oil was impossible to find – whether they’d sell it or use it wasn't important at that moment in time, only that they had it. He’d been right – once they left a burning match in each room, the fire spread quickly. Pete barely had time to put the cap back on to the green spray paint before Patrick was tugging him on to the motorcycle, not giving him time to stand back and look at his work. And whilst Pete probably (see: _definitely_ ) shouldn't have written it, he couldn't help but be glad that he did.

Lay before the burning building as they sped away were the words _FUCK THE INDUSTRY. YOU’RE LOSING YOUR SO CALLED-CONTROL. COME GET US._

Being on the run from an unnameable force just got a little more fun.

-

“Right, okay – so, I’ve mapped out the possible routes we can take to get to the Throttle Bar, and I think I’ve got the best one.”

Pete nodded, not taking his eye off the ball he’d been bouncing against the large rock they were hiding behind. “Remind me why we’re going to a fucking _Throttle_ Bar again? And Mega Moon’s, of all places? What’s wrong with Paradise Motel?”

“We have to end up at Mega Moon’s because there’re always tons of outlaws stopping past, and they might know shit about the key. And the motel is right next to a patrol point, so if we went round the crossroads to Hyper Thrust instead, not only do we stay further away from exterminator hotspots, we also cross the last-known patrol route less than we have to. This, if you don’t majorly fuck up, gives us at least thirty percent less chance of being killed.” Pete grinned at the sarcasm in his best friend’s voice. “So what, now there’s only a sixty-five percent chance we’ll get killed? I like our odds.” Patrick rolled his eyes this time, but Pete was convinced he saw the corners of his mouth twitch up when he affectionately muttered “dork” under his breath. “Sun’s almost at its highest point, so midday patrol’s any minute now – we gotta not be near front zones at all,” he said slowly, as if he was only just realising it. “Shit shit _shit_ , I can hear engines. We gotta – I mean, they’ll see us, I-”

“Patrick, fucking calm down. I can see them- well, him. This is Zone 6, ‘Trick, they're _miles_ away from sending routine patrol down here – he must be here for surveillance maintenance, so he won’t be expecting a jump-on. We can take him. Do you want to, or should I?” Pete said quietly, because whilst it was only one guy, it was a first level draculoid (Pete could see his badge,) meaning they were dealing with overly-alert senses instead of a barely human thing that shot whenever something moved. Patrick nodded his head, cocked his gun and sprung up into a crouch; head occasionally peeking through the gaps in the rock in a way that let Pete know that this was his kill.

But when they actually had the drac on the ground, gun flung into a spiky bush and Patrick’s gun pointing down at his white uniform, he froze. From the day he’d been handed a gun, he’d always claimed he was only violent in self defence. He didn't like picking fights – and that was okay, because whilst neither did Andy, Pete and Joe were always a perfect match when it came to ambushing draculoids, and if the four of them were the ones who got ambushed, Patrick never hesitated before he pulled the trigger. Now was the time, however, that Pete’s stupid brain decided to remind him that Patrick hadn't killed anything since Andy died. “Shoot it, Patrick,” Pete hurried, because the guy’s walkie-talkie was going off and if he didn't get a response, backup in the form of tinted-window cars would arrive quicker than Pete could pick up his ray gun. They were carbon powered, as most in the desert were, because they couldn't _actually_ make their own guns. No, but it was easy enough to hack into vending machines and grab the plain white BL/ind ones. It kind of went unspoken that you were supposed to decorate them once you got your hands on one (either by force or by paying your life savings of carbons to trade a vend-a-hack off of someone,) so that was exactly what they’d done. Patrick’s was lots of different pastel colours with sharp musical notes dotted around – kind of what you’d expect his mind to look like. Pete’s was a lot more... _expressive_. Well, that’s what he said. Joe had just rolled his eyes and said it was definitely a _Pete_ thing, and he wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or not. He’d just put on the floor and flicked paint at it for a good two hours, let it dry, flipped it, and done the same. You could no longer see the white.

Unfortunately, he could no longer see the gun itself, because the zip on his holster (“ _Yes_ , Patrick, I’ll get a non-zip one as soon as I can find one”) was undoubtedly stuck. “ _Patrick_!” Pete called. “If I kill him, does it make us as bad as them?” he whispered, and Pete felt his face go slack. “Patrick, I- there isn't a _person_ under there. It’s just a fucking body and a soul sucking mask! There’s no _him_ , it’s not human! Kill it before it kills you, goddammit!” Silence fell. Patrick stayed still. Pete was still desperately scrabbling at the zip. “Who’s the _real_ enemy? BL/ind are helping people. You’re killing people. What if a child came in a mask? Would you kill them? You’ve been doing all of this telling yourself it’s self defence, but – in the end – who’s actually hurting people? You-”

The body recoiled as a steaming hole appeared in its chest. Pete shook his gun to get rid of the laser-smoke before winding an arm around Patrick’s waist and guiding him behind the rock as he broke down. “Don't apologise. I’ll do that from now on,” Pete sighed as the younger boy breathed onto the ripped fabric of his t-shirt. “Only if we have to, right?”

“Only if we have to.”

-

It turns out, Pete’s ‘we’ turned into an ‘’I’.

They’d just picked names for each other, too, because they’d found out from someone calling themselves Cherri Cola that BL/ind have noise-sensitive cameras all over the desert. If you were born in the city and you use your real name in the desert, they check their records and put a bounty on your head. It rises every time you’re seen, but there’s a chance they’ll hurt family if you use your name. Pete has distant cousins that never did anything wrong, so he decided names would be a good idea.

It turns out, if you had a name in the desert, people knew who you were. There were the Ultra V’s – frankly, they were assholes (according to Cola) who shot people on sight for the fun of it. They were all for bringing down BL/ind because, well- come on, who wasn't – but they didn't mind if a new face got in the line of fire. People only know who they are for two reasons, though: one was that they had a face-off with three dracs by Chow Mein’s a few sunrises ago, coming out with a dead member but still grinning. Volume, had been the guy’s name. The second reason – something Pete was far more interested in – was that they considered another group their rivals and spent ninety five percent of their time trying to out-do them. “That’s practically impossible, though,” the guy had said animatedly. “You can’t just out-do the killjoys. Nobody can.” was what followed. Pete wanted to know as much as he could.

“You- you don't know the Killjoy’s? Holy batteries, man, have you been living under a rock?”

“Uh... Something like that. We used to ride with someone who liked to lay low.”

“Used to?”

“He ghosted himself,” Patrick gave out, as Pete bit back a _that’s none of your business_ , because the guy was just trying to help them.

“Oh. Sorry, dudes. But yeah- the Killjoy’s are practically the faces of _everyone_ who has a bounty on their heads. They’ve been on the run since-” he swivelled around on his bar-stool, checking no one was in close proximity before leaning in to say “Since the freaking BCU started up! Everyone else around here calls themselves killjoys, but these guys- these guys are where it started.” In all his excitement, Cola didn't seem to notice Patrick whipping out his Vend-a-Hack from Pete’s bag (modified, if you were wondering. Has the ability to hack into BC’s human folders and make new ones if they come across someone born in the zones.) “The uh, the BCU?” Pete frowned, again apologising for how much like a newbie he sounded. Cola stayed relatively close, keeping his voice low. “The Battery City Underground. It’s run by a group of low-key Killjoys who call themselves Cobra Starship – they live in the city, but it says in the BL/ind records that they’re dead.”

“So, they aren't dead?” Pete intervened.

“Nope. Records say they’ve been dead since they went solo and dumped their medication in the sewers, but that was just under a year ago. I saw the leader of ‘em a few sunrises ago. They’re doing better than they have in a while – Vicky T just got a whole box of hair dye over to Chow Mein, so they’re raking in carbons. Vicky T isn't her real name, by the way – city files don't pick up nicknames.” Patrick and Pete both nodded. “They’re hugely chaotic, too – in a good way. In a bad for BC way. They live under the city, but after the sun’s gone down and the patrol’s gone ‘round, one of ‘em hops up with a can of paint and sprays something nasty on the walls of buildings. D’you remember that time the whole city was quarantined for a bit ‘cause someone spray painted the words _guys suck cock_ on the road of every single street? That was them. That time someone contaminated the ‘crow uniforms with glitter? That was them. What else’d they do...?” Cola frowned along with Pete. This group was starting to sound familiar. “Well... There’s a rumour going round that they were the ones that burned down the Old Hotel, but I don't think it was them. They haven't really addressed the rumours yet, but I don't think they’d come all the way out to zone 3 and risk getting caught just to screw around.”

“That was us,” Patrick said quietly. “I did the burning and Pe- he did the writing,” he continued when Cola didn't, going back to typing when he got no response. “You- you guys are the ‘fuck the industry’ guys? Holy shit! The killjoys thought that was _amazing_! Dr. D did a whole section of Traffic Report on it!”

“Hey, wait... you actually _know_ the Killjoys!” Patrick exclaimed, bending his head and whispering an apology when Cola shushed him. “Sorry, but – dude, this is fucking amazing. Your kill percentage is 95 percent! You’ve ridden with them, you’ve fought with them, and you’ve raided the motherfucking city with them... What are they like?” Pete said in hushed excitement, snatching the Vend-a-Hack from Patrick’s hands and scrolling through the folder. Cherri Cola sighed in defeat. “They’re some of the best people I’ve ever met. They kinda have this stereotypical-group-of-four vibe going on, but it’s just _them_ and they’re still definitely OTT individual. Why are you noting this down? And what _is_ that, anyway?” he paused, screwing up his nose. “Wirelessly organised Vend-a-Hack,” Patrick muttered, still not looking up. “We’re noting down because it’s nice to know who we’re dealing with.”

Cola frowned, but continued anyway, mindlessly fiddling with the dog tags around his neck. “Party Poison is kind of the leader, but in a rather dysfunctional way. In some ways, Poison is a shit leader, ‘cause they're super hot-headed-” Cola paused, making eye contact with a man across the room in a wheelchair who’d just come into the Throttle Bar. “I’m saying too much, I think. I don't think they’d appreciate it. I can give you the rest of their names, though. You got the files? Just type in Fun Ghoul, Jet Star and Kobra Kid. I-”

“Cola!” a smooth voice called, and the man in the chair wheeled over the the three. “Static levels aren't doin’ so good. We gotta hit the road to somewhere a little more milkshake ‘til the next dust storm blows over. I’m also not on top of the idea that Poison’s cool with you telling these kids he has emotional issues. Let’s scram,” he instructed, giving a respectful nod to Patrick and Pete before turning his chair around. “Show Pony’s waitin’ in the van, Cola. If you’re not out in a minute, they're driving.” Cola’s eyes widened as he jumped up off of the bar stool, pushing some carbons over the bar to the bartender for his drink. “I gotta scram, but-” he paused as if wondering if he was allowed to say it. “But stop by Dr. Death Defying’s radio booth if you ever need help. See ya round!” was all they got, instead of an explanation to a) who the wheelchair dude with a strangely hypnotising voice had been, b) who Dr. D was or c) where the radio booth was.

“Is it just me...” Pete began, and he could practically hear Patrick bracing himself for a stupid remark. “Or did Cobra Starship sound awfully familiar?”

What followed that question was a series of hushed arguments about how Pete was out of his mind and that there weren't showers in the BCU (Patrick’s side of the argument,) and how Pete was perfectly sane, thank you very much, and that Patrick smelt so bad that it  was worth checking it out (Pete’s side of the argument.)

“Hey!” he called after Cola as he pulled a bandana over his mouth. Cola frowned, looking up at the oncoming cloud in the distance. “How do we get to Battery City Underground?”

* * * * *

Their walk was silent – partially because they were nearing a lot of patrol heavy spots, and partially because there was nothing to be said. Before they’d left (but after they’d been given directions by Cola,) the two had gone over the killjoy’s files (both the BL/ind data and the BCU database Patrick had managed to hack into) to see exactly what was the face of the desert. It was rather interesting, really – the stories had hyped them up to be heroes, powerful and faceless, but they just looked like normal guys. The guy who Cola had called a dysfunctional leader had neon red hair and about a 27 billion carbon bounty riding around on their heads. According the BL/ind file, his weaknesses were gender issues (sometimes thinks he’s a girl,) arrogance, loudness, curiosity, homosexuality and Kobra Kid. Pete didn't really understand how homosexuality was a weakness, or why BL/ind couldn't cope with the idea being bigender. BL/ind were weird. The BCU’s files also said arrogance, loudness and Kobra Kid, but with a scribbled side note that said Kobra Kid was literally his kid brother, so it was kind of understandable how that could be used against him. The photo of him for the BL/ind photo was in the style of a prison shot; it had him with his head tilted slightly, a glint in his eyes that was definitely more than innocent. The BCU folder had him ecstatically grinning with his arms around a shorter man whose face had been cropped out and a bleach blonde man who Pete declared extremely attractive and also turned out to be Kobra Kid. His file was a lot emptier on both databases – he was the younger brother, excellent karate skills, stammer that meds didn't affect, asexual, trans man who’s had top surgery but not bottom. The BCU folder (by this point Patrick decided that the Killjoys were definitely familiar with the people behind BCU, because this was personal stuff that you didn't just pick up from public conversations) went on to say he had problems talking about certain things and is a terrible shot when he’s upset. Jet Star was the quiet map/lock-picking genius who had a rather impressive amount of hair and whose downfall was a panic disorder (BL/ind said it was unspecified; the BCU file said he couldn't be left alone for long amounts of time without breaking down or having some sort of anxiety attack because of childhood trauma. Fun Ghoul was short, but his temper added on about five inches of scariness – he’d gotten into the most bar fights out of every single desert member (an impressive record that Pete had thought he held.) He’s bi and very proud – he got the flag tattooed on his wrist by someone from BCU who goes by the name Hyperthrust. Pete thought that sounded like a very Gabe name, considering there was also a nightclub called the Hyper-Thrust, and naming yourself after a nightclub was practically screaming Gabe Saporta. .

Once Cola had a) driven them as close as he could to the BCU and thrust him a torn up map with the entire underground networking marked over the top, someone (who the wheelchair man – later known as Dr. D – called Show Pony) that Pete thought may have been a man wearing leggings, a crop top, a helmet hiding his face and roller skates warned them about heavy patrol from Zone 3 and therein to the city. “Tell them-” Cola paused, taking a long sigh full of regret. “Tell Hyperthrust that Bill sent you guys. Punch him in the face if he declares love for me.” The androgynous dude laughed and rolled over to playfully pat Cola’s shoulder. “Yeah, that’ll work! Thrust’ll do anything to get into old _Bilvy_ here’s pants!” they giggled. “I will _end_ you,” Cola growled menacingly.

“No, you won’t.”

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+                                                                                                                           

Mikey stayed quiet as Frank sprayed the red crosses over the door and the concrete floor of the building. He didn't want to voice the question they were all thinking (“how many bodies?”) so he just settled on fiddling with the blood-soaked bandage wrapped securely around his left hand (stupid hidden rock that he tripped on and cut his hand.) “They’re looking for something,” Ray said dully. “They wouldn't raid a zone three hut and kill everything that _moved_ just for a routine check. This- this wasn't routine.” The other three nodded, the once white carpet that was now mostly a deep red saying more than they ever could. There weren't any bodies – there never were, not when there were so many body bags to fill. “We should tell Dr. D that they’re looking for something. It might be the difference between life and death for someone,” Gerard piped up, catching the can of paint Frank tossed at him. “We could radio him?” he suggested.

Frank rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause he _always_ picks up the transmitter. He won’t get the message unless Cola or Pony are in the studio, and that almost never happens.”

“He has a valid point, actually. We’re gonna have to go there in person if we wanna get a message across,” Ray frowned, wrinkling his nose. The room smelt like a slaughterhouse, but it was still safer than being out in the open. “We _need_ t-t-to go to th-the underground, though. Our med-m-meds supply is da-dangerously low and w-we’re not getting a-any- any healthier,” Mikey intervened. His hand still ached, and he’d heard that Gabe had gotten a box of disinfectant packs – that would go pretty quickly, and he wanted some. “I’m aware of that, Kobra, but this is like, level one importance. We gotta get this to him,” Ray countered, tying his bandana back over his mouth in an attempt to block the smell just a little. “We could split up- don't look at me like that, Poison. Kobra and I can go meet Thrust, and you guys can go back to the diner. We’ll be back before midday tomorrow,” Frank put forward, grinning when Mikey nodded. “It’s the quickest way to get everything done.”

And – with the other three ignoring Gerard’s protests – that was how they did it. Mikey and Frank put their glasses and bandanas on (he’d left his helmet back at the station because he was pretty sure Frank had filled it with pink powder and he hadn't had time to empty it) before bidding the older men goodbye and setting off towards the city. They’d left before Gerard and Ray, but they were planning to head in the opposite direction.

“How d’you wanna do this? We could go head on from here and take the short route and probably end up dying because we’ll get captured on sight, or we can go the long way around.”

Mikey groaned. “Th-through the Slums District? I’m re-r-really not in the mood to g-get hit on by a drunk pros-pr-prostitute. Or _get_ hit by a drunk p-prostitute, while we’re o-on- on the matter.” Frank laughed, gesturing for them to cross the main road whilst there was nobody else in sight. “Both of those things have only happened once, Kobra. And it’ll be _fun_! We can see the pretty sights, meet the lovely people, borrow a porno droid-”

“ _Ghoul!_ ”                                                   

“Hey, I’m kidding, obviously. I don't have the carbons for a good one.”                                               

“I’m pr-pretty sure th-that’s like, porno droid dis-di-discrimination or su-something,” Mikey countered, giggling when Frank rolled his eyes but smirked anyway. “When we go past that sign, we’re in zone one, okay? That means twice the patrol, twice the cameras and twice the death risk. Got your boots tight?” he whispered.  Mikey nodded. “Good. Get your gun out – d’you wanna take the lead, or should I?”

“You,” Mikey nodded, rising slightly out of his crouch to check nobody was near the bush he was in. He hated leading – he needed to have the person with him in sight at all times, unless they were gun fighting back to back. “Coast is cl-c-clear, but there’s a- a ca-cam to our right th-that we need to avoid, so stay o-off th-the path un-until we reach tha-that- that clump of thistles,” Mikey informed him when he nodded. They set off at that, staying low to the ground as they crawled past the camera and crossed the path when they got close enough. There was a light breeze in the air – nothing to cause a dust-storm or anything (although Dr. D had warned them about one picking up in zone five at sunrise tomorrow) but thankfully enough to sweep sand over their footprints. “Patrol’s c-comin’ up – crawl into that b-bush and don't even breathe un-until you can’t hear th-them anymore,” Mikey instructed, planting himself in a thick, spiky bush, curling up and proceeding to lie as still as possible. There were two motorcycles, from what he could tell, so whilst it would be easy to get overpowered if they were noticed, the motorcycle owners would only skim the dark grounds instead of doing a detailed torch search. Mikey mentally shuddered, not daring to shake the bush – _fuck_ , the desert got cold at night.

Thankfully, the bikes went past without any problems, and continued to do so for the hour it took to get under the fence to the Slums (which really, they should have fixed by now. Gerard broke it on a raid last year.) They weren't quite safe yet, though, because rank three dracs were given the job of sweeping the district a few times a day and picking up all of the out-of-use droids. Most were recycled, but there were always a few that had been wrecked by Slum citizens or the ones who put off getting a new battery and had taken so much Plus that it frizzled their insides – BL/ind burnt the non-recyclable ones. Mikey didn't like thinking about the fact that droids had consciences.  “G-got your gun ou-out? I think th-there’re some d-drunk Slum citizens we m-might need to take out.”

“I’m not shooting an innocent person just because they’re drunk, Kobra.”

“No- wh-who the hell do you th-think I am? If you hit them in the he-head with the butt of your gu-gun then that’ll d-do.”

“You haven't got your gun out,” Frank protested.

“Yes, b-but I can actually knock p-people out when I punch th-them,” Mikey hissed, pulling them both into a crouch behind the bins as the group passed.

“Are you insulting my punching skills?” he demanded, jumping over a bag and scrambling back into the shadows once he’d crossed the road. Mikey snorted. “Yes. Th-the last- the- the last person you- you pu-punched just swayed on the sp-spot a bit.”

“Fuck you.”

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+

Pete got down the manhole pretty easily – Cola had regrettably told them that the sewer paths were the quickest and safest way to the underground. He stood on the wet pavement, screwing his nose up at the smell and squinting as his eyes adjusted to the surroundings. He had a torch somewhere in his pocket, but he wasn't turning that on until Patrick came in and shut the cover behind him.

That didn't happen.

Instead, he heard Patrick hiss “Run!” before the manhole cover was pushed back over the entrance and the sound of unknown voices shouting accusations. Pete flicked the torch on and held it up at the exit, but there was no ladder and no way he could jump in the air long enough to shift the cover. There was what looked like a pink bit of fabric trapped in the cover, which he spent the next few seconds jumping to try and grab. He succeeded after the fifth try, squinting in the light to see Patrick’s slightly ripped bandana in his hands.

No. _No_. There was a laser shot and a loud thud above him. **_No_.**

“Did you see somebody else with him? I could have sworn he was with somebody else,” came a muffled voice. “My eyesight is impeccable, and I did not. Do you think we should put a mask on him, or fill another bag?”

“We can’t afford to not fill another bag. Korse gave us extra today.”

Pete ran as fast as he could, tearing blindly in the opposite direction and clutching Patrick’s bandana so hard his knuckles were white. He was alone again, and doing everything he could not collapse on the floor and sob. That’s what he’d done when Andy was killed – to be fair; it’s what they’d all done. But Patrick had told him to stay alive, right? So he had to do that. He had to keep running, because running meant staying alive, and he had to stay alive for Patrick. A few minutes later, when his lungs were burning slightly, he shot past a white sign and backtracked to read it (which almost proved fatal because when he’d tried to stop, he’d skidded so far he’d almost fallen into the sewer itself.) It read: **WELCOME TO BATTERY CITY. UPWARDS – CITY ENTRANCE. LEFT – BACK TO ZONE ONE. RIGHT – THE SLUMS DISTRICT. HAVE A BETTER DAY.** Pete could hear the rumble of engines above him, and with the torch’s aid see another manhole cover. He’d never hear of the Slums, but he figured it was his best option, considering he’d come from the left, and up and out probably meant certain death. Being considerably out of breath, he decided that walking was nice, and it probably wasn't far anyway. He hadn't come across any patrol, but maybe there were a few sane faces at BL/ind who would rather die than work down here for 12 hours. The smell would kill you.

“Stop fucking _whining,_ Planetary!” came a high voice from around the corner, making Pete freeze and press back up against the grimy wall. “I’m not fucking whining, Sniper, I’m just _saying_ that this is seriously unfair! You never take the door-shift!”

“Hyperthrust’ll ghost you if you don't can it, dude. Just be glad Val Velocity decided to go solo and ditched Vamos and Vaya to work with us. You’re gonna be gettin’ this shift a hell of a lot less now,” came the second voice again. There was the sound of _something_ slamming (it sounded too heavy to be a door) a few seconds later, and Pete poked his head around the corner to look at who he was dealing with. There was a small girl with dark skin (about Patrick’s height, which hurt to think) sitting in a plastic deck chair and twirling a purple ray gun between her fingers, a second blue one lying on her lap. Her outfit was in no way BL/ind regulation (her excessively curly hair was bunched up with neon pink scrunchies into two pigtails, the scrunchies being the same colour as a) the massive goggles covering her eyes – the word BOOM was written over the pink-tinted lenses, b) the lines of paint on her face, c) the larger part of the SWEET-branded crop top she was wearing and d) the large bubble of gum she was currently blowing. She also had two blue neckties that matched her bracelet and blue sneakers – well, rollerblades. They looked like your average neon-blue sneakers apart from the line of wheels protruding from the soles. Nothing she was wearing really matched the bright yellow shorts,) but she certainly looked better than Pete. Someone wearing colourful clothes on guard meant that he’d reached the BCU. Hopefully.

It didn't matter either way, because although he couldn't see her eyes, she definitely saw him when he jumped forward because a drop of cold water dripped from a ceiling pipe down the back of him neck. “Hey!” she called, rising and skating a little closer, both guns tightly held in her hands. “State your name and why the fuck you’re hanging round here, buddy!”

Pete swallowed, and said back “Decay Dance,” sounding a lot more confident with it than a guy who’d used his old record label name instead of being original. “And I need to talk to Hyperthrust.”

She smirked, wiggling her eyebrows but still not lowering the guns. “I don't recognise the name- and you can’t just _talk_ to Thrust.” Pete snorted – trust Gabe to feed his workers his importance. “Did you want me to book a meeting or something?”

“Don't get cocky with me, mister,” she frowned, but she let her arms drop and jerked her head for him to come closer. “Does he know who you are, at least? ‘s always a start.”

“Yeah – we were friends when we were kids in the city. I haven't seen him in a while, but I just walked away from my best friend’s dead body, and Thrust is all I have left, so I’d appreciate a quick hello,” he snapped. She nodded slowly, seeming otherwise indifferent to his little speech. “Get ready to move real fast, buddy, because everyone else in there is on wheels,” she sighed, zooming over to what looked like the entrance to Underground. "SNIPER!" she shouted, twisting the handle of the vault-door and beckoning Pete over. "Gimme a hand, dude. SNIPER!" she shrieked again, laughing when Pete winced. He heard an over exaggerated sigh and the clunking of metal as Planetary rolled her eyes and said "About time. Stand back." Not a minute too soon, either, because the door swung open to reveal a lanky Japanese girl who looked a little less than pleased. "I'm not switching with you, Planetary. Forget it."

"I know that, but if you're so adamant that I gotta stay here then you've gotta take this dude over the Hyperthrust," she sighed, taking her seat and resuming her gum blowing/gun twirling when the girl -- Sniper -- gave him a hand in stepping through the vault-door. It turned out they were also wearing skates (normal ones, this time, instead of weird skates-sneakers hybrids,) so at first he had to jog down the long stretch of tunnel to keep up with them. "Hey, lady-"

"Don't call me lady. Genders are for shithead corporations," she interrupted.

"Oh. Sorry for uh, misgendering you, I guess? What pronouns are you cool with?" he puffed, and she frowned, the corners of her mouth twitching when he said "I'm clueless, but I'm not an ass."

"I don't really care. Mix it up."

Pete nodded, and it was really unfair how out of breath he was. "Anyway, dude, is there a skateboard up for rent? 'Cause you're going unfairly fast." Sniper rolled her eyes, but reached into her scrappy fabric bag and tossed what looked like a fused box of metal and wooden onto the floor. Pete raised an eyebrow and nudged it with his foot. "You've gotta throw it so hard it shatters," she sighed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. So, still completely unsure as to why they were breaking the box, Pete broke the box. The fragments scattered in seconds, but when Pete blinked they started to stick together again, forming- forming a fucking skateboard. Sniper grinned at the look of shock on his face. "Bat City aren't the only ones with tech," she said as he tentatively got on the board (because who wouldn't be scared of it breaking?) As if to prove her point, she tapped a complicated looking wire thing on the shoulder of her denim jacket. "Vaya? You guys there?"

 _"Yeah, boss?"_ a crinkly voice came from the wire thing.

"I need you guys to monitor the tunnel while I take a killjoy to Hyperthrust."

 _"Aww, no fair! It smells bad down there!"_ said two voices at once.

"Don't complain, Vamos. Planetary is the one who's actually got the sewer shift - and I'm letting you both come up, so hurry your asses before Thrust sees you slacking." Pete needed to have a serious word with Gabe about keeping cool technology from him.

"Don't stop and talk to anyone, and don't let me out of your sight because it's easy to get lost." Pete rolled his eyes at being treated like a little kid - just because he was shorter than her, it didn't mean he was younger than her - but he stayed close to her anyway. They skated through a few rooms full of boxes and a few workers (also on skates - does nobody walk anymore?) that Pete didn't quite catch the faces of, so he didn't know if they were anyone he used to know or-

"WENTZ!" a voice called and interrupted his train of thought. Sniper skidded to a stop in front of him, leaving him no choice to do the same (because they'd probably bite his head off if he ran into them.) "Spencer, come check this out!" the voice shouted, and Pete's head whipped around to try and match the direction the footsteps were coming in. Apparently he was too late, as a second later he was knocked off of his feet in a tight hug. "Dude!" the voice cried. Pete was too overwhelmed to see the face of his hugger/attacker, but this was a voice that only belonged to one person. "Noise, please get off of the floor," Sniper said in a tired voice, as if this was a regular occurrence. "Bren- can't- breathe-" Pete choked out, hearing the recognisable melodic laugh in his ear. Brendon climbed off and jumped up, holding out a hand to help pull him up. "You look like shit, man!" he exclaimed, but the grin on his face showed he didn't really care. He also had a point, though - Pete hadn't looked in a mirror in a while, but he probably did look like shit. His ripped (and extremely singed) clothing was brown with dust, he was spattered with paint and blood, he was limping a little from a badly-bandaged twisted ankle and he hadn't had the chance to shave in weeks. Brendon actually looked pretty good - the white muscle shirt he was wearing was clean and he was cleanly shaven. "Where's everyone else?"

Pete's face crumpled, and that was enough of an answer for him to hug him again - just a little more gently this time. "You?" he sighed into the younger man's shoulder.

"I have Spencer. I- I don't know where Ryan and Jon are. I haven't seen them for months," he muttered to Pete, then to Sniper "Bubble wants Vaya and Vamos upstairs now, so you're gonna have to trade back with them. I'll take Wentz to Hyperthrust."

*

After a teary (100% not Pete crying) hello to Spencer, Brendon lead Pete through the tunnels (all of which were heavily graffitied and included VIVA LAS COBRAS multiple times) and into a large room with a desk and a few people. Brendon jumped off of his board, picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. "Yo, Bubble!" he called, getting the attention of a girl with a tight blue ponytail and thick tinted glasses behind the desk. "Sniper's just gone down to the tunnels to get Vaya and Vamos. Where's Thrust?"

The girl smiled and directed the two at a closed door to the right of the desk. Brendon knocked twice and stuck his head in, grinning when Gabe sighed. "No, you can't have another shower today. You wasted water fucking Spence last time."

"Hey- it isn't that! I have a familiar face that showed up in the tunnels..." he said in a sing song voice. Gabe raised an eyebrow, pen and paperwork dropping to the desk when Pete made himself visible.

Pete had heard of excitement, of course he had, but he did think jumping over the desk was a little extreme. Gabe did it anyway. "It's been years, buddy, where've you been?" he cried, holding Pete back at arm's length. "Don't answer that - fucking hell I've missed you!" Pete laughed at Gabe's enthusiasm. "You'd better stamp him off, then," Brendon put in, making Gabe jump. "Noise, do I pay you for anything?"

Brendon drooped, pulling a face at him. "Come see me before you leave, alright?" he made Pete promise, giving him a final hug before darting out of the door again. “What did he mean by stamp?”

Gabe’s face went a little more solemn. “We have records that I keep in here of people we know that are either missing or killed. You guys’ve been on the missing list since I started it up, but- it’s just such a relief when we find out someone’s alive, y’know? The found stamp is here somewhere, I think,” he sighed, starting to dig through an already opened draw. Trust Gabe to be able to control the entire underground mafia of the biggest city in the world but not have an organised desk drawer. “Here! The red side is found, the blue side is gone. D’you wanna do it?” he asked, pushing forward a large red binder full of pages and handing Pete the stamp. His name was alongside the rest of what had been his clique – looking at Gabe’s grin, he realised with a pang that he thought Patrick, Joe and Andy were perfectly fine. Well- it wasn't like he could lie. _PETE WENTZ,_ he stamped in red, but he twisted the stamp upside down and marked the next three names in blue. “Oh,” Gabe whispered, barely audible. “I wondered why you’d come in on your own.” Pete nodded, unable to speak in fear of crying again. He read down the list, pausing at RYAN ROSS and JON WALKER written in Brendon’s scruffy handwriting. “What do you have to do to get on here? The missing list, I mean.”

“We have to presume that you're dead.”

“Why not just put them on the killed list, then?”

“Proof,” he said simply. “There are very few people who have guaranteed whereabouts or at least reliable sources who know where they are, so anyone who isn't Tommy Chow Mein could be dead, really. But having a missing list gives you a little hope, y’know? Someone needs to see the body, hear the gunshot to confirm the death.” Pete nodded, running a hand through his greasy hair. “Wait- if you didn't know I was here until now, who told you?” he frowned, raising an eyebrow when Pete smirked. “Cherri Cola – but he told me to refer to him as Bill when I’m talking to you.” Gabe went bright red. “Exactly how desperate are you to get in his-”

"So what can I do for you? Do you want a shower? Need some food?" he said hastily, obviously eager to change the subject. “Is your ankle okay? You were limping before.”

Pete winced, taking pressure off of his foot. "Is there anything I can clean my cuts with? Infection isn't easy to travel with." Gabe grinned, beckoning him out of the room and down a much emptier corridor. "The whole point of this is to help people – there’re a certain number of carbons we ask for, but if someone's desperate and broke then we'll still help them out. We've- sorry, one sec," he paused to tap the beeping wiry thing on his shoulder. "I'm listening."

" _We've got two zonerunners in need of health care, sir. They're requesting talking to you personally_ ," came the static voice through the device. Gabe rolled his eyes, and said "I'm kind of busy here - can't Bite attend to them? Who's requesting me, anyway?"

" _Two of **the** Killjoys, sir. Kobra Kid has a large gash on his thigh and Fun Ghoul is threatening to put pink dye in all of the washing machines, sir."_

Gabe made a whining noise from the back of his throat, but turned around anyway. "I gotta deal, dude. The Killjoys don't come often, so it's usually important when they do. You wanna stay here or come with?" he sighed, offering Pete a plain chair to sit and stare and the wall. No way was he sitting and staring at the wall whilst two of the Killjoys were talking to Gabe.

The fact that he chose to accompany Gabe had nothing to do with the fact that he remembered Kobra Kid being the hot one.


	2. The Author of This is Bad at Chapter Titles Please Don't Judge Him on Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is like 2000 words shorter than the last one oops. love me. there's like, violence in this one and all of the others. i prolly should have mentioned that in the warnings. i'll go do that. (tw for transphobia too i'll also add that)

“For fucks s-sake, stop ma-making such a- a- a fuss!” Mikey hissed as Frank paced up and down in front of the bed he was sat on. “Why d-does it need to be Thrust, a- any- anyway? I’m sure he’s b-busy.”

“I need to talk to him about Charlie, I need to look at his records and I need to discuss a deal on med supplies with him! And don't tell me not to fuss – you got your fucking leg sliced open because I didn't watch your back!”

“It isn't sl-sliced open, Ghoul, it- it- it’s just a ga-gash,” Mikey protested, ignoring the small part of his brain that was screaming as he pressed the wad of cloth to his leg. He actually didn't know how bad it was – his irrational fear of blood was preventing him from lifting the sodden cloth. “And it w-wasn't y-yu-your fault. I sh-sh-should have- have th-thought about how there wa-w-was still someone be-b-behind me.” Mikey tried to get up and grab a bottle of water (there was a box of them on the other side of the room, only to be pushed back down by the woman who’d given him the wad of cloth and had then gone to taking the temperature of a young boy who was in a bed a few away from Mikey. “Sir, please sit down with your leg up on the bed,” she insisted. “N-no, I’m fi-fine,” he protested weakly, but she took his stammering for feeling weak so she ignored him and pushed him back down on the bed. He wasn't stammering because he was  _weak_ , goddammit, he was just anxious. And he was always anxious around people he didn't know. He was  _fine_. “P-please, miss, can y-you just let- let me g-et some wa- water?” he mumbled, internally groaning in frustration when she asked him to speak up. “Ghoul?” he muttered, relaxing a little when Frank nodded and went over to the box, tossing him a bottle as Gabe walked into the room.

“Who’s throwing things in my hospital?” he frowned, and Mikey noticed an arm around his waist for something that looked like support more than comfort. “Sit on Kobra’s bed, Wentz, I’ll get some disinfectant for both of you,” Gabe said to the arm next to him, pulling a man about Gerard’s height through the door and nodding at the nurse lady before turning on his heels to hopefully go and find the disinfectant. The man was a mess – he was covered in blood and paint more than dirt, and his t-shirt was caked into his wounds. The bed was a double (who made double hospital beds?) so Mikey had no trouble shuffling over to the far side so the man could lie down. The nurse frowned at the poorly wrapped bandage around his ankle, but settled on getting him to shrug his coat off. He seemed reluctant at first but gave in pretty quickly as he was obviously too weak to physically protest. She started sorting through the pockets, pulling out three different coloured pieces of fabric (bandanas, he quickly worked out) and reaching to toss them in a basket. “Wait, no, I need those,” he spoke up, and his voice was deeper than Mikey had thought it would be. “I’m just going to wash them, Pete.”

“You can’t wash them. They belong to my friends,” he – Pete – protested, propping himself up on his elbows. “Lie down please. Why do you have them? Where are your friends?”

“In body bags,” he mumbled, lying back down. “Please.” The nurse stood there, the bandanas loosely caught in her fingertips but even at his request still moving towards the basket. Mikey made eye contact with Frank and jerked his head at the nurse, murmuring a “Ghoul,” under his breath when he did nothing. Frank hopped off of the end of the bed and swiped them out of her hands, sticking them in her back pockets and stepping back when she reached for them. “I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but I’m sure this dude has more pressing matters than unwashed scarves.” The nurse’s eyes narrowed, but she turned back to the man and grabbed a pair of scissors. “I’m going to cut your shirt off so I can clean the scrapes on your chest, okay?” she said softly, then a little louder: “You shouldn't be in here, sir,” to Frank. He grinned, sitting on the bed next to Mikey with a soft thump and lying his head on his shoulder. “I am, though.”  She rose from her leant over position and gave him a look that Mikey loosely translated to be  _get out before I slice your throat with these nail scissors._  “Pants off, Kobra Kiddo,” Gabe said, waving a bag of clear liquid and a handful of cotton swabs in the air. Mikey recoiled into his pillow, definitely not looking at the abs of the man next to him. “What? W-why?”

“If I’m cleaning and probably stitching up that cut, then I’m gonna need them off. Unless you want me to wreck them? ‘Cause the limited amount of clothes we steal from the city do not include death grip, mile long black skinny jeans.” Mikey glowered at him but kicked off his boots and tugged off one leg of his jeans, in too much pain to care that he was sitting in his boxers next to cute abs guy. They were all silent (apart from the bed creaks as the nurse peeled off the rest of cute abs guy’s shirt and tossed it straight in the bin.) “Kid,” Gabe sighed, cotton swab at the ready. “You need to take the cloth off if you want me to fix it up.” Mikey swallowed, because even the thought of that much blood made him feel sick to his stomach. Frank pulled up a chair and sat next to his side, grabbing his hand and squeezing it gently. Mikey let go of the cloth.

Gabe reached forward and lifted it slowly, the look of horror on his face making Mikey’s stomach sink. “Oh  _God_ ,” he said, his voice having a hint of disgust that really wasn't making Mikey feel any better about the whole situation. “N-not really help-helping, Thrust,” Mikey groaned, throwing and arm across his eyes to resist sitting up and looking at his leg. “Dude, that’s sick,” Frank said, squeezing Mikey’s hand in an apology when Mikey whined “I’m li-literally going t-to pass out if- if- if you keep talk-talking about m-my leg or j-just b-b...  _blood_  in g-general.”

“Sorry. This might hurt a little, by the way. Just warning you,” was the last thing Mikey heard before he jerked his elbow to his right and blacked out.

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+

The short man – Ghoul – had apologised for the hot guy – Kobra – accidently punching Pete in the shoulder twice now, but that didn't make it hurt any less. The nurse lady had stitched up something on his other shoulder, though, so he guessed he should just be glad he didn't get any stitches punched. He’d also taken a shower in the time that Kobra had been passed out (Ghoul explained that he had a serious fear of blood and pain,) which was nice, because he hadn't taken a clean, actually hot shower in weeks (he had washed three or four days ago with a hose, but he’d almost caught hypothermia from the cold water.) Ghoul, despite the first impression Pete had gotten (tiny man who was pissed off at everyone,) was eager to make small talk, happily chatting away about tech they’d stolen in their last raid. He didn't have a clue what Ghoul was talking about, but it was nice that someone made an effort to talk to him. “Fuuuuuuck,” Kobra sighed gently, turning on his side and snuggling into Pete (who glared at Gabe when he laughed at Pete’s look of help-who-is-this-hot-stranger-and-why-are-they-on-me.) “Kobra?” Ghoul hummed, walking back around to the other side of the bed and standing over him. “Is it safe to use names in here?” he asked. Pete was extremely glad that Gabe nodded, because his last name had been used enough in the past few hours for BL/ind to kill everyone he’d ever made eye contact with (probably, at least. Cola didn't explain the cameras very well.) “Mikey? Wake up, dude. We gotta leave before sunrise,” Ghoul sighed, giving a name – a  _real_  name – to hot guy. He suited Mikey, Pete thought. “No, c’mon, Gee,” Mikey yawned, rubbing his eyes. Ghoul looked a little put out. “I’m not Gerard,” he protested.

“Mikey, you’re going to push me off the bed,” Pete murmured, smirking when Mikey shot backwards to the very edge of the bed. “Wh-what? S-sorry, I get cl-clingy when I’m asleep,” he blurted out, but all Pete was thinking was  _be my husband_. “Don't worry about it,” he said, because he couldn't say  _make out with me_. “You need a shower, Kobra?” Gabe asked. “N-no, we got th-the one at the D-Diner wor-working again. Had one y-yesterday.”

“Did you guys just come here for stocks, then?”

“Pretty much- wait- Kobra, d’you want your bandages changed? May as well, while we’re here,” Ghoul prompted, smiling at the nurse when Mikey nodded. “So, what can I trade you, Frankie Wankie?” Gabe sang, skipping over to where Ghoul – Frank, probably – was sitting and beaming as he sunk his head into his hands. “Did-” he paused to replay the question. “Did you just call me Frankie Wankie?” Gabe nodded. “Oh dear lord.”

“Time ‘round here waits for few people, Frank, and just because you're one of them, it doesn't mean I won’t get impatient,” Gabe mock-sighed, and Frank stood up. “D’you want me to list it, or should I write it down? List? Right, uh... Enough water for two weeks, bread, red hair dye for Poison... you got any prescription glasses for Star? Nice. Uh... testosterone pills, I think we’re running low on them, uh...” Frank muttered, shifting weight between his feet and screwing up his face. Testosterone pills? What- oh, right. Pete swivelled his head slightly to see Mikey’s shirt off ( _hello_ ) and two rounded scars that were being dabbed with weird anti-scar cream. “Socks would be great, bandages, we were hoping for our own bag of disinfectant if you were willing to give one up, matches, batteries... that it, Kobra?” he reeled off, looking at the taller man for confirmation as he tilted his head to the side. “Beckett n-needs a new bi-b-binder. Poison w-wanted eye- eyeliner.”

“Ooh, me too!” Pete piped up, shrinking back down into his pillow when everyone looked at him. Gabe rolled his eyes and tapped his shoulder-walkie-talkie. “You get all that, Vaya? Vamos?” he said, and instant frowns overcame both Frank’s and Mikey’s faces. “ _Yessir! We’ll have it all in bags in the in the infirmary ASAP!_ ” came two voices. Frank’s frown darkened. “You guys are working with the Ultra V’s? D’you hate yourselves?” he scowled, looking confused when Gabe laughed. “No, ‘course not. Val Velocity tried to use me as target practice last year. No, he just ditched Vaya and Vamos because they were slowing him down, which pissed them off to no extent, so they decided to come work for someone he hates.”

“S-so it’s just him, V-Volume an-an-and Vinyl?” Mikey asked, tugging back on his muscle shirt and his red jacket over the top. “Nope – they saved a civilian a few weeks ago, but one of the dracs ghosted Volume before they cleared the area. Val blamed the twins, ditched them and now rides solo with Vinyl as his back-up.”

“Back-up? Pah!” came an indignant voice from the doorway. “Yeah, Vinyl’s his bodyguard,” said the other voice, then together “but Val only uses him when he talks too big and pisses off someone he can’t handle.” All heads turned to the doorway to meet the eyes of two twins, identical girl and boy up to even the way they stood (the only difference being their clothes, and that one had pink hair and one had green.) “We got the shit, boss.”

“Huh? Oh right, thanks. Listen- can you guys not do that creepy twin thing?”

“What creepy twin thing?” they said in unison. Gabe sighed. “The creepy twin thing where you talk in unison? It’s  _creepy_ ,” he went on, as if that emphasized his point. “Okay, boss!” they said simultaneously, skipping back to the doorway after handing Frank two white plastic bags with the BL/ind logo and the words  _have a better day_  printed on the side. Vamos smiled at Pete. “Thrust told us what you wanted, Dance, but he spoke kinda fast, so-”

“So sorry if it’s missing anything,” Vaya interrupted, pointing at the left bag for Frank to give to Pete. Pete nodded warmly in thanks, but couldn't help noticing the way Frank was kind of glaring at the twins, and how the twins were kind of glaring back. “Look,” Vaya sighed, cocking her hip. “We’re sorry for anything we did with Val,” Vamos continued, putting a hand on his.

“You broke my fucking guitar!” Frank shouted, obviously intimidating the other two even though he was a good four inches shorter. “I had to pay Cola like, my weight in carbons to convince him to get me another one, and it’s still nowhere near as good-”

Vamos cut him off with a sigh. “Okay, okay. We’re  _super_  sorry for what Val  _made_ us do, and-”

“And we promise we’ll try and make this better,” Vaya finished, both of them giving Gabe a salute before scrambling away from Frank’s disapproval. “Did- sorry, but did you say Cola? As in like, Cherri Cola?” Pete yawned, standing up and then promptly falling over. “’m fine. Head rush,” he sighed, pushing the nurse away but still taking Mikey’s hand to help him up. Mikey had soft hands with calloused fingertips, one of them wrapped in a new bandage from a couple of minutes ago. “Yeah- you know him?”

“Kinda. We bumped into each other at the Throttle Bar – he was the one who directed me here in the first place, actually. I just- he said to come around if I ever needed something, and I think he might know where something is. D’you know where I can find him?”

Mikey nodded at the same time Frank shook his head.  Everyone pointedly looked at Frank. “Okay  _fine_ , I do know, but-”

“I’m not asking you to take me there or anything, don't worry- I just need to know where to go.”

“It w-would- w-wu-would make- make sense if y-you c-” Mikey paused to swallow, and Pete could see the look of frustration on his face. “If you c-came with u-us,” he said slowly. “Sorry th-that took so- s-so long t-to-”

“You don't have to apologise,” Pete grinned, and Frank decided that hey, maybe it wouldn't be too bad to walk with someone who could make Mikey smile like that, because it had been a while. “Yeah, good point. Our current home is the diner, and Dr. D built his station inside of it. Cola never leaves the dude’s side, so you’re pretty much guaranteed to find him there. I guess you could come with, if Mikey wanted you to,” Frank said mock-wistfully, the duo grinning when Mikey said “Definitely.”

-

There are cameras in bushes, and sometimes Pete forgets to check there, and Frank forgets to remind him.

The trio had made it out of the Slum district fine, not encountering any street-cleaners, patrollers or even citizens in the near darkness. The sun was just starting to rise when they got out and around to the Zone one sign, and Frank had previously been whispering about stealing a bike, maybe, when they heard a twig snap behind them. All three heads shot up at once, all meeting the masks of different dracs.

Frank's eyes widened. "Shit, we're surrounded!" he whispered frantically. "I have a plan that should keep all of us alive," Pete countered, "but only if you do exactly what I say. Ready?" Both Mikey and Frank nodded. Okay, so maybe he wasn't being completely truthful - he would keep Mikey and Frank alive. He couldn't be so sure about himself. "When I say go, Ghoul run to a bike and drive to safety with all of the supplies. We should be right behind you, but don't look back if we're not."

"But I-" Frank protested, quietening down when Pete glared. "If you don't want to get captured, follow the fucking plan. Kobra, we'll try get them all on one side then take as many down as possible. When they call for backup, you run to a bike and I'll be right behind you." The two nodded, pushing their backs together to face the hoard of draculoids. "GO!"

The aftermath of the shout was instant - dracs ran at them from all angles, just focused enough on Pete let Frank slip through and steal a motorbike. "Run, Ace!" Pete shrieked, blowing a hole in a drac that got a little close and hissing "if we pretend he's not Ghoul and I am then they won't follow" to Mikey.  "Gas bomb!" the taller boy cried, pulling Pete to the floor as they became engulfed in a sticky white cloud. Pete groaned in frustration. "It's trigger-sticking! Our ray guns are useless!"

Mikey nodded, dropping his borrowed white gun to the floor and somehow roundhouse kicking a drac to the ground. "Th-thank shit I ga-ave him my r-real gun," he said loudly, cursing as four cars drove up behind him and blocked their exit completely.

Pete didn't see the rock a 'crow tossed at his head until he was already on the floor and trying to stop his head from spinning. "Put your hands above your head, Killjoy, or I shall shoot your friend," a Scarecrow demanded. Mikey wasn't stupid enough to risk his life for Pete, was he? Apparently so. Pete was lifted by the scruff of his jacket by a drac and held there until he was upright- but after stopping his vision from fizzing he saw Mikey being pushed towards the city gates with a gun pressed to his neck. The guy holding Pete up clearly thought he'd passed out, because nobody in their right mind would restrain a 'dangerous criminal' by gently tugging their arm. If Pete could run forward and knock down one of the dracs holding up Mikey, then Mikey could probably make a run for it while he distracted them. Taking a deep breath, Pete swung his leg out and winced at the crack of the drac’s leg when he made contact. There wasn't any time to freak out over that, though, as he still needed to steal their gun without anyone else shooting him, and it was definitely easier said than done (as were most things.) But apparently he’d left any ounce of luck he possessed back at the Underground, because the second he raised his head, his eyes met Mikey’s a few meters away. One of the Scarecrows had yanked his hair so his head was tilted back, pushed him down to his knees and had a gun pressing into his chin. “Drop the gun and surrender, Killjoy, or I’ll shoot,” he said flatly. Pete remained still, the fear in Mikey’s eyes betraying his next sentence. “Run fu-fucking r-run-” he cried, yelping in pain when a drac kicked his ribs to cut him off. Pete dropped the gun and let himself be pounced on, not even protesting when an unnecessary elbow dug into his lower back, or when his wrists were handcuffed together (although the cuffs were a little tight and slightly digging into his skin.) Nobody said a word as they were marched through the city, Pete fixing on Mikey’s head in front of him instead of meeting the eyes of many watching citizens (and not just because the first time he tried to turn his head, someone twisted it forward again.) After a five or so minute walk, they were marched into a  _massive_  glass building with two Scarecrows guarding the door and a large smiley face logo on the front of the building with BL written in large and the words  _we can fix you_  underneath. At the sight of Mikey, a weird bald man in a blouse and a long coat who had previously been standing threatening a drac walked stiffly over and halted the group. “Well, well, well... look what we have here. The innocent little  _girl_  of the four,” he sighed, tracing the tip of his gun along Mikey’s jaw. Mikey continued to stare straight ahead. “When I told you to keep running, Killjoy, I thought you'd try a little harder than that. But, well, what can I do if you just keep  _presenting_ yourself to me? It’s like you're  _begging_ to be captured, aren't you?” he whispered, and Pete could see he was doing everything he could not to shy away from the man. What would Frank do in this situation? Well, Pete had only known the guy for a few hours, but it would probably be something that would be both obnoxious and helpful to Mikey. The man – he was wearing a badge, what did it say, what did it say... Korse! The man reached forward and tilted Mikey’s head back with his gun. “Get the fuck  _off_  of him, Korse,” Pete spat in a voice a bit lower than his natural one (because Frank’s voice was hella low for a tiny guy, Jesus.) Korse frowned, losing interest in Mikey for a second and glaring at Pete. “Don't recognise me?” he spat, because he realised that Frank would be long gone now, and he was free to be Pete. Well, not Pete, but Decay Dance. “No, but you are going to help me.”

“What makes you think I’ll do that?” he retorted instantly.

“Because I will kill your friend over here if you do not,” he breathed, the ghost of a smile on his face. He turned back to the Scarecrow leading the group. “I thought you said he was with one of the four; this man is not one of the four.”

“But Kobra called him Ghoul, sir, and they called the other Ace, so we thought-”

“That was a plan, you daft bastard! Since when does Ghoul have pink hair?” he shouted, stepping closer to the masked man. “Take them down to the room now- if nothing – and hear me when I say  _nothing_  – goes wrong then I  _might_  consider not revoking your status back to draculoid. Go  _now_!” he growled, pouncing off to a room behind the main desk a second later. Pete didn't know what the  _room_ was, but he really didn't like the sound of it. Suddenly, he was tugged forward by his handcuffs, involuntarily crying out when he felt them slice into his skin. Mikey immediately turned to check if he was okay, both of them sighing when his head got forced forwards again. “Where’re we goin’?” Pete asked, wincing as the gun was pressed harder into his neck. “Don't ask questions,” the guy hissed as they were lead down about four flights of stairs and into a white corridor with two white steel doors at the end. Realising they were about to be separated, both Mikey and Pete started resisting, thrashing around in the arms of their captors. It happened anyway, though, even though it ended up with Pete being dragged feet first into the left room and Mikey being carried into the right.

The second his handcuffs were taken off, Pete turned and spat blood at the Scarecrow who had punched him earlier, earning another slap before the door slammed. The room resembled a cube of sorts, three featureless white walls and what he presumed was an identical one behind him. There was a freaky looking interrogation table in the centre of the room, complete with one comfortable chair and one chair with restraints. When he went to touch the table, however, he was interrupted by Mikey’s quiet “Y-you okay?” because it turned out the only thing separating the two rooms were metal bars, meaning they could still communicate without having to break down walls or anything. “Huh? Yeah, I guess. The ‘cuffs cut into my wrists a little and my mouth is producing blood, but I’ll live-” he paused at his poor choice of words, because there was actually a large chance that he would, in fact, not get out of this alive at all. “You?”

“M-m-m... M-my hand hurt- hu-h-hurts,” he sighed, showing Pete the stained bandage instead of explaining what had happened, because his stammer always got worse with anxiety, and his anxiousness must have been going through the roof at the moment. “Oh. Okay.” He stayed silent for a minute or so, mentally going through the lyrics to Melanie Martinez’s  _Dollhouse_  because it had been playing in the lobby and was now stuck in his head. “Do you know sign language?” was what he finally settled on, because he really didn't know what to say. “Y-yeah?”

“D'you wanna talk in sign language, then? You seem to be having a little more trouble than usual.” Mikey nodded eagerly, thinking for a moment before signing  _‘why did you learn sign language, then?’_

 _‘It made it easier to communicate if we needed to be silent’_ , was the response. His face fell a little when Mikey signed  _‘if you don't mind me asking, who exactly is_ ** _we_** _?’_

“It’s- well, it  _was_  me, Patrick, Joe and Andy. Andy got ghosted by- well, I don't really know, because Joe was the only one there and he refused to talk about it. Andy died a couple’a years ago, anyway. We didn't really leave the Old Hotel after that, unless we were desperately low on supplies or something. Then Joe found somebody’s bag full to the brim with pills and he thought it a good idea to take them all. We didn't want anyone to find his body, so Patrick and I burnt it, but then we didn't want anyone to change how we were planning to leave the Old Hotel, so we burnt that down too-” Mikey interrupted with a loud humming noise, excitedly signing  _‘you guys were the Fuck The Industry guys? Amazing!’_

Pete laughed. “Cola said you'd liked that. That happened just before we met him, actually, because we wanted to go to the Throttle bar to see if anyone knew anything about-” he paused to scan the room; his suspicions confirmed when his eyes met the lens of a security camera. “About that thing we were looking for, but we ended just chatting to Cola about- about you guys, actually. We ended up never talking about what we were trying to find, but he told us about BCU and we figured Thrust would know something, because- we used to know Thrust during the Helium Wars and he had a habit of knowing things, if you know what I mean. I got to a manhole cover ‘cause Cola said the sewers were the safest way, and Patrick thought he heard something so he made me go down first. The second I got down, though, he told me to run and kicked the manhole cover shut. They- they shot him, I think. I heard his body fall onto the cover, but the people who ghosted him were talking about coming down, so I had to leave. I- it was my fault he died but I had to leave his body there-”

“H-hey,” Mikey whispered, sticking his hand through the bar and placing it on Pete’s crossed knee. ‘ _Don't keep blaming yourself. Would he have wanted you to get so caught up on it?'_ he signed, and Pete fell silent. “I guess not.”

‘ _Thank you, by the way. For saving him over you. It would have been so easy to take your supplies and run. You were the closest to the road, after all.’_  Pete shook his head. “I wasn't just gonna leave you two there to get captured. I wouldn't have been able to sleep at night knowing I could have helped you and didn't.”

 


	3. the author wants to let you know he's trash for a 16 candles au and will prolly write one soon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the second he’d met Mikey, it was blatantly obvious that he was a very anxious person.

Frank didn't think there was anything behind him, but he was going too fast to turn and check, and slowing down had a high possibility of getting him killed. A small beeping noise interrupted his internal thought train of  _shit shit shit shit shit_  and he looked down slightly to see he had about a minute before he ran out of gas. Holding his breath, he slowed enough to check the long, dusty stretch of road behind him, using all of his willpower not to cry out in relief when he deemed it empty. There was definitely a tracker of sorts on the bike, though, and he was nearly at the diner, so he’d have to push it off-route if they didn't want a surprise visit later in the day (the time raids usually happened. Completely the opposite of practically every zonerunner ever, BL/ind carried out most of their operations during sunlight.) What to do with the bike, though? The engine itself was usually the tracker, and a hollow shell of a bike was not only kinda useless, it was also inconvenient to walk with for half an hour. There was a large drop next to him, so he just settled for turning the bike around, getting off and letting the last few drops of gas carry the bike over the edge. The sun blinked up at him from the centre of the sky.  They might not have followed him straight off, but there was a guarantee they’d been tracking him, and he left several hours ago – Patrol would be here in a few minutes. He had to run. He had to ignore the blinking pain in his leg from being shot earlier and run.

Frank was pretty sure that Mikey and the other guy (Peter or something along the lines of that) weren't dead, because he’d checked over his shoulder just long enough to see them being wrestled to the ground, which would have been unnecessary if they were just going to be shot. They’d been captured and probably bought to Korse – which, in a way, was even worse – but they weren't dead yet, and he was going to stand by that hope until he saw them in body bags (something he really fucking hoped wouldn't happen.)  _Welcome to Zone 5. Have a better day_ , the sign told him.  _Fuck you_ , he told the sign, and carried on running. He had his bandana tied around his mouth so at least he wasn't inhaling any dust, but his mouth was still dry from running for twenty minutes in the hot desert sun, and by the time the Diner was in sight his head was spinning. Running was getting kind of hard now, actually, because every time he took a step the world seemed to shift a little bit, and it was so  _hot_  that his insides had probably liquefied. “Poison!” he rasped out, but all that did was hurt his throat. The Diner was so close, but  _oh_ , the world was tilting sideways and suddenly he was on the ground, the sun hurting his eyes even through his sunglasses. “Poison-” he coughed out, trying to crawl forward but only managing a few more feet. The boards covering the doorway to the station were under his fingertips, but they were so  _heavy_ , whereas he’d never felt weaker in his life. Using every ounce of energy he had left in him, Frank rammed his body weakly into them, falling to the ground after the soft thud he made. That should have alerted somebody in there, but he was probably vulture food now because he could see them circling above in the sky and he couldn't move another muscle if his life depended on it – his life truly  _did_  depend on it, by the way, but he was still lying on the floor a few millimetres from safety. His whole body ached and his breathing was thick and raspy and there was literally water in his bag but he could not do anything.

“Ghoul?” Cola’s voice rang out, a hand reaching down to shake his shoulder. “ _Ghoul_?” he said, a little more firmly, groaning in desperation when he didn't get a response. “Pony! I need a hand!”

“Can it wait a sec?” their voice rung back. “My hands could not be fuller!”

“No, I think Ghoul’s almost dead!” he called out frantically. Frank still couldn't move, so he had no objection to hands grabbing him and hauling him up, bridal style. It would probably be a funny sight if he wasn't completely limp. “Are they back, then?” he heard Gerard say, then the clatter of something falling to the ground. “What- fucking shit what the fuck happened? Cola?  _Cola?_ ”

“Poison, please, calm down! Just go and get the meds kit.” The room stayed silent for a second, the only thing he could hear being the pounding in his ears and his thick breathing. “Poison,  _now_!” he insisted, and after a few steps Frank felt himself being placed down on a table and his glasses being taken off along with his bandana. His eyes were open and he could see Cola standing up above him with a concerned expression, but all he could do was blink, breathe and try really hard not to throw up or pass out. “Ghoul, can you hear me?” he said slowly, breathing a small sigh when Frank made an affirmative noise. He was slightly aware of the burnt flesh on the back of his leg pressing against the table, but right now he couldn't even feel his leg, let alone the pain in it (he considered himself lucky they’d only landed one shot on him, really.) The sound of boots on wooden floor became apparent, and the sound of that weird breathing Gerard did when he was panicking. “Is he okay? What happened?”

“He’s breathing and blinking, which is good, and he can hear me, but he doesn't seem to be able to move or talk. I think he got shot in the leg, though, because it’s smoking slightly.”

“How d'you know he can hear you? What happened? Is he gonna live? Where’s Kobra? Is that-”

“Poison, if you don't calm down, I’m going to get Show Pony to physically remove you from this room until I’m done. No- I know you're worried, and they will be too, but they also always listen to me if I’m nursing someone, so don't think for a second that they won’t do it. Now, are you going to help?”

Gerard must have nodded at Cobra, because he then said “Good. Can you go check those bags for water and bandages?” Footsteps, the rustling of plastic, the sound of water-bottles hitting the floor, more plastic rustling, then- “Hey, this bag isn't ours. It has these weird fabric squares in them. But here’re our bandages and here’s some water.”

“Dance-” Frank choked out, then when he got no response, “water.” The other men instantly obliged, the sound of more footsteps and then the plastic seal to the water bottles being broken. Cola pushed Frank up against the wall connected to the table so he was in a sitting up position and beckoned Gerard over when Frank whined in pain. The feeling in his body was starting to come back, meaning he could feel where he’d been shot and it didn't feel nice. Gerard hopped onto the table so he was sitting facing Frank and held the water to his mouth. “Can you hold it? Or d’you want me to?”

“You,” he coughed, eagerly lifting his head when the liquid made contact. A small amount dribbled down his front, but it didn't matter. The three (well, technically four – Ray was leaning against the doorway, half watching Frank and half checking he hadn't been followed) of them stayed like that for countless more minutes until Frank had finished the bottle, turned to the bin at the side of the table to throw up and then finished another bottle. “Will you be okay if Pony does your leg instead? I gotta go report back to Dr. D and see if the airwaves have picked up any news about Kobra.” Frank nodded, the pang in his chest ever-present when he realised Mikey wasn't with them. And that it was kind of his fault. “Yeah,” he said anyway, managing to weakly squeeze back when Gerard squeezed his hand. “Right, I’ll go get Pony. Did you manage to get a binder?”

Frank nodded. “Not new. Trans* guy had surgery. Donated it.”

“Cool, thank you,” he sighed, then after walking over to what was probably the binder in one of the plastic bags, “Pony! Need a hand!”

A whistle was the response – Frank assumed they had previously been messing around in the studio or something, because a second later, they skated through the door (the one that lead to the studio) and over to the table. “Yo demigod, what’s up?” they grinned. Nobody knew why they insisted wearing that helmet inside too, but anyone who asked just got a pointed glare through the visor. Pony did take it off if it was something serious, or just if Dr. D asked them to, because (again, for an unknown reason) Pony seemed to do whatever Dr. D asked. “Ghoul needs patching up, and I gotta skate back to the station. You good with gun wounds?”

“I can always try,” they piped up, laughing when Frank groaned. “That fills me with confidence,” he said hoarsely. “Where’s the kiddo, then?” The room fell silent, and that was when they took their helmet off. “He’s not-”

“He’s alive, and they won’t kill him until they have us too,” Ray spoke up, but he didn't sound sure, and it was easy to tell. “Right. You go do your thing, demigod, I’ll stitch things up over here.” They skated over to the worryingly empty meds box Gerard had hauled up onto the table earlier and pulled out a handful of scary-looking medical equipment (including a needle and what  _may_ have been medical thread but also may have been normal thread, which was worrying.) “Poison, can you get him so the shot wound is facing the ceiling? He bought back some dis’ from the BCU, so I’m just gonna clean up the stuff then bandage him up,” Pony hummed, swooping down to pick up the clear bag and then zooming back over to the table. Now that it was exposed to the air, Frank could really fucking feel the burn on his leg, no matter how much Gerard tried to distract him by stroking his head. He decided the best way to deal with it was to bite down on his arm every time it hurt and  _then_  make some unintelligible noise of pain, so it would be muffled slightly. It didn't work. He just ended up bruising and drooling all over his arm whilst making not even slightly muffled noises of pain.

He pushed that all to the back of his mind, though, because the second Pony was done (nobody was exactly sure what it was he had done, but it was finished and there was now a tightly wrapped bandage on under his jeans) he told himself that he had to get up. He had to get up, get in the Trans Am, drive back to the city and rescue Mikey (and the other guy too.) Because they were the reason he wasn't dead, and he was the reason they were in prison cells. “Ghoul, where...” Gerard frowned as Frank slowly and drowsily tried to make his way to the door. He got as far as the second table before his leg gave way, forcing him to clutch the chair as so not to fall on the ground. “I have to- it’s my fault- I need-” he stopped to cough, getting kind of scared when dust flew from his hands. “I need to save Kobra and Dance,” he whimpered, this time letting himself fall forward into Ray (who had been expecting it, so it was much better than falling onto the floor.) “Hey,” he whispered, pulling Frank back up into a standing position. “You can barely walk and you're still dehydrated. If we went down there now, you wouldn't be able to fight, and you know that. You’d just get captured too, and that’s no help to Kobra and this other guy.”

“Star’s right, Ghoul. We can’t do anything until you’ve rested and we’ve all figured out a plan,” Gerard spoke up again, instantly walking over to the two and taking Frank into his arms. “Come on, let’s go rest,” he sighed, slinging an arm around his waist for support. “I think we’re both gonna kip out for a little bit, yeah? Would you be okay if Pony went back through to the studio? He’ll have to shut all of the doors,” he gently asked Ray, who shrugged. “I guess. If he’s in there too long, I’ll just go sit on the floor of Dr. D’s booth while he reads or something. Or find Cola.” Frank nodded slowly, although he wasn't too sure – the last time they’d left Ray in the diner by himself and shut the doors, he’d had a panic attack under the table and couldn't open them. “Come and wake one of us if you need anything, yeah?”

Ray nodded, shifting his weight from one leg to another. “Yeah.”

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+

Pete didn't know what worse worse – getting interrogated or watching Mikey be interrogated. It was blatantly obvious that he’d met Korse before, because the man knew exactly how to get under his skin. Sure, Pete’s nose was bloody and probably broken from being punched so much, but Mikey was fucking  _shaking_. This was worse, he decided. He’d take being punched for not saying something he didn't actually know any day over this. He was plain punched – what was unfolding in front of him was literal torture.

From the second he’d met Mikey, it was blatantly obvious that he was a very anxious person. His stammer worsened under combat (or, less specifically, when he was scared,) when he was touched by the dracs behind him he physically flinched from the contact and he used Frank to convey most of the things he wanted said. Korse knew this. Korse was forcing him to speak instead of using sign language (which would have been easy enough,) and then- Pete had been punched, but this was  _torture_. It started with burning and cutting words into the back of his neck and his arms, the whining noises Mikey let out making Pete want to cry. When he still refused to open his mouth, Korse went too far. “Stand up, hands in the air,” he said, his voice sounding far too amused for anything good to be coming. When he didn't move, Korse slammed his face into the table, resulting in blood starting to drip from his nose. Pete leaned forward through the wide-set bars, glaring at him. “He’s still stuck in the stupid fucking restraints you put him in, idiot,” he spat. The drac closest to him swung their gun into his stomach, turning back around when he groaned in pain. “If you speak again without permission, I will hurt you,” Korse sighed, motioning for the dracs to undo Mikey’s restraints and hoist him up into a standing position. It was then and only then that Pete put the pieces of what was about to unfold in front of him together – the hand-cuffs, the whip in the corner of the room and the devious grin on Korse’s face. “Take  _her_ shirt off, then.” Mikey’s eyes widened, and he started to struggle as one of the dracs started tugging at his black t-shirt. “Stop struggling, Killjoy; it will only make this harder. Unless you are willing to tell me  _exactly_  what I need to know,” he sighed, tracing the tip of his gun down Mikey’s chest. “It seems to be a little flatter than last time, dear me. Shall we take a look?”

Mikey shook his head again, but Korse rolled his eyes and pulled a flick-knife from his pocket, catching the tip of it on the tear of his shirt and yanking it down until Mikey’s t-shirt was ripped down the middle. He frowned at the fresh bandage over Mikey’s chest. “This is new... Can I take it off?” he grinned, ignoring Mikey’s frantic headshakes as he started to unravel the bandage, eventually revealing the kind of fresh scars on his chest. “What on  _earth_  are these?” he frowned, poking at one with his blade and grinning when Mikey hissed and tried to back away. “What did you do to your lovely body,  _Micaela_?” was what came next, and Mikey’s reaction to the sentence was easy to read.  _His birthname_ , Pete thought. It didn't suit him. Mikey was much better. “No matter. Put her up against the wall,” came the instruction, and Pete turned away at that point. He couldn't bear to watch what was about to happen – but he couldn't do anything to stop him from hearing it. Korse would ask a question, then when he got no response Pete could hear the sound of the slicing into Mikey’s back and the strangled noise of pain he let out. It was awful. The worst part of it was that Korse was actually  _enjoying_  watching the dracs whip him.  “It’s really very simple, Killjoy. You tell me where your other friends are, and this can all end. Do we have a deal?” Korse hummed, swinging his legs off of the table and beginning to walk around to where Mikey was restrained against the wall. “I  _said_ ,” he hissed, and Pete thought he sounded kind of Russian – not that that mattered, all thoughts went out of the window when Korse whipped out his gun and fired so the beam skimmed the very edge of Mikey’s left arm, grinning when he involuntarily cried out. After he dared to turn around, Pete could see the skin starting to go a harsh red once it stopped smoking. “ _Do we have a deal_?”

“ _N-no_ ,” Mikey spat through gritted teeth, and his eyes were watering out of pain. “O-over m-my dead bo-body.”

“Oh, believe me when I say that’s  _exactly_  how this is going to end up. You may as well speed up the process, because one way or another, you  _will_  tell us where the other three are. So, do I need to ask again?”

“Y-you can- c-can- c-can ask all y-you want. N-not tel-telling,” Mikey muttered, failing to hide the gasp he let out when Korse stabbed him in the arm. It wasn't anything major – the blade was only the size of a pinky finger, and the place had no significant veins or anything – but it still hurt like a bitch. “ _Scarecrow Korse, we’ve determined a major disturbance in section C, corridor nine of your department. Please report for duty immediately_ ,” a woman’s voice interrupted, making Korse roll his eyes. Just for good measure, he swung the butt of his gun into the back of Mikey’s head, nodding with a satisfied look when it lulled forward and Mikey’s eyes closed. The dracs shifted him over not-too-carefully and strapped him back into the seat. “You two stand guard. If he’s gone when I get back, I am going to skin you both alive and leave your bleeding, skinless bodies in the wastelands for waveheads to laugh at.” Both of the dracs swallowed, standing up straight and saluting as Korse gave Pete a final glare before he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

Five minutes later, Mikey still hadn't stirred, and the dracs were obviously getting a little bored with the silent company they’d been left with. Pete was equally as bored (and also worried about Mikey) and he’d already thought up every way possible to escape – all of which ended up with him captured again, Mikey captured again, both of them captured again or both of them dead. And Mikey needed to be conscious for 90% of his plans to work. Which he wasn't. Now he was just stuck on wondering exactly what the ‘major disturbance’ had been, and why they needed Korse to sort it out.

But then, like a shining pile of carbonated batteries falling from the sky, his luck returned. Because he knew, oh now he knew what the disturbance had been. In the small window of his cell door, he saw a flash of curly black hair and suddenly Planetary was pointing in the direction of Mikey’s cell and mouthing  _distract them_. And that really wasn't that hard, especially as they’d started touching Mikey (pulling off his shredded t-shirt, moving his head with his hair, poking his face with their guns, ect) and Pete wasn't really happy with that. He chose his moment, however, when they started unbuckling his belt because Korse had made multiple comments about him being a girl, and that they were ‘curious’ as to what was between his legs.

“Don’t you fucking _touch_  him,” Pete hissed, jumping up from where he’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor and leaning against the bars. Just as he’d hoped, they both turned towards him and walked as close as the bar would let them (which was when he turned slightly to Planetary and winked slightly.) “You don't get to tell us what to do,” one of them said rather flatly, and Pete couldn't tell whether he was frowning or smirking. These masks weren't very helpful. “Yeah, but you don't get to just check in his pants without his consent because you’re curious. It’s none of your fucking business – he’s a boy, and that’s that, you stupid bastards,” he spat, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Mikey’s cell door handle slowly turning. “What did you call us?” the other one asked, picking up his gun from where it had been slung over his shoulder. “Stupid bastards,” he clarified, and if Planetary wasn't any quicker he was going to get shot and Mikey was probably then going to get molested. But once again, she proved that calling two mind-controlled humans with heavy duty guns stupid bastards had actually been a good idea (although he wouldn't recommend it for future boredom spells.) “Happy Birthday!” she said gleefully, giggling as they both dropped to the floor with steaming holes in their necks. Pete (with minor difficulty) slid through the metal bars – the only reason he hadn't done that before was because of the two gun wielding weirdos – and started tugging on the straps around Mikey’s wrist. “Proximity alarm – you gotta go  _now_ , Dance. Leave the dead dude.”

“He’s not  _dead_ , he’s just unconscious. I’m not leaving him,” Pete spat, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around Mikey’s bare chest (and bloody back) before hoisting him up over his shoulder. He was surprisingly light for a grown man, but still heavy enough for Pete to want to put him down. “If you wanna make it out alive, you-”

“I’m being 220% honest when I say I’d rather die than leave him here, Planetary. They were  _torturing_ him,” he said desperately, and she sighed. “Fine. Take the left corridor and then go up the stairs to the outer jail entrance. There’ll be a bike you can take – you gotta ditch it once you’re close to your HQ ‘cause they got trackers – and you shouldn't run into anyone, but take this if you do,” she blurted out, handing him one of the BL/ind guns he’d seen dracs carrying earlier. He nodded, shooting out a thank you before standing up. “If you die trying to make sure me and Kobra get out alive, I will kill you. Understood?”

“Planetary Party doesn't  _die_  on people,” she insisted, but she looked a little happier now that he’d said that. “Good luck, Dance,” she said, skating out of the room before he could wish her the same. She had left a hoverboard with him, though, which was extremely helpful – it practically cut his journey to the exit in half in terms of time, which in hindsight, probably saved his life. When he got to the bike shed (it was kind of a shed, he didn't really have time to stop and admire the wall structure) he slung Mikey off and put him at the front of the bike, sitting behind him and putting his hands on the handles so he couldn't fall off.

They only encountered two dracs on their way to zone three, which may have been the luckiest Pete had  _ever_  been in his life – especially as he took them out before they noticed him at all. He didn't know where he was going, though, so he pushed the bike off the edge of a drop once he got into Zone 4, sticking the gun into his pocket so he could sling Mikey back into bridal style. He’d totally marry the dude if he was up for it, if anyone was wondering. He was pretty sure nobody was wondering. It was pretty dark, but there seemed to be some form of lantern in a deep block shape in the distance (holy fuck, they’d been in there all day) so he decided to follow that. He was thirsty, holy shit, but he also couldn't help but be glad it was night and not day. Mikey was like a human radiator, so he wasn't cold in the usually freezing desert night – but even getting pneumonia would have been better than heatstroke, dust overdose, wave overdose or just the seriously fucky sunburn that usually came with walking during the day. Pete was pretty sure three of his fingers were dislocated, though, so he got a burst of pain through them every time he moved Mikey up slightly. How else could he carry him? And more to the point, why hadn't he woken up yet?

Too scared to pin it to anything serious, Pete decided the guy was now just heavily sleeping – it made sense if he thought about it, too. Mikey hadn't slept today, or yesterday either, so sleep catching up was probably high on his schedule. A small part of him wished that Mikey could wait until they weren't trekking through the desert, but oh well. When the lantern building was about 150ft away, he switched so Mikey’s limp body was in a kind of piggy-back position, like the one Andy used to give him or Joe if they were hurt (quite a lot of the time for people who tried to stay away from any other living thing.) Groaning and shifting Mikey further up on his back, they passed the Zone 5 sign, and Pete was trying really hard not to a) collapse from exhaustion, b) burst into tears and c) start screaming really loudly for help (all of which were mainly counterproductive. The third might be helpful, but also had a large chance of him ending up in a body bag because the night crawlers on patrol have really good hearing.) So close, goddammit- 50ft.... 40ft....30ft... then “Hey! Tell me who the fuck you are before I shoot you!” called a familiar voice, unknowingly shaking with the aura of  _I don't want to shoot you at all, I’m scared_.

“Cola?” he coughed out, spitting the mouthful of dust he received onto the ground. “Cola, it’s me. The bar guy with the wireless Vend-a-Hack and lack of basic knowledge.” The figure lowered the gun and started running towards him, brandishing a pink lantern as Pete took shaky steps towards the building. “Hey, man, what’re you doing here? Is that your friend on your back?”

“No, my friend’s dead. This is Kobra, and I’ve been carrying him since Zone 4. Where can I put him down?” he rasped, speeding up a little when Cola turned and beckoned him towards the doorway. It was light inside, and looked warm. “Oh my God- what happened? Is he-”

“He’s just unconscious, he hasn't been ghosted or anything. Is Ghoul here? He has my stuff.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i'm ngl i'm pretty proud of myself for not forgetting to update for like 63 years bc i may or may not occasionally do this. i have about two chapter's worth of writing ahead of this one, so after i put those up the updates will be much less frequent. i will still do them, promise. i'm trash for my own story. also trans!kobra gives me life for both fictional development and personal reasons and i have an essay due in tomorrow that is alas, unwritten, yet here i am updating this for the eight people who like it. thank you, eight people. you have a special place in my heart (just under fried seafood and to the left of Gerard Way.)


	4. the chapters are getting shorter and worse sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Doesn't matter. Still the prettiest girl I know,” then “MotherFUCKER!” because Pete is the queen of ruining romantic moments and Cola doesn't give any warning when he’s about to relocate your finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you thought the last chapter was bad then you should read this it's worse

“I couldn't give a flying fuck about whether you think I’m strong enough for this or not, Star. The longer we leave this, the more likely it is that he won’t be alive when we save him!” Frank cried, waving his hands in the air in exasperation. Ray sighed, tugging on his curly hair. He and Gerard had only managed to sleep for about five hours before Gerard had a nightmare and had woken Frank up in the process. “Ghoul, I understand that you're worried – we all are, of course we are – but you can barely  _walk_. If you came with us, you’d just end up getting ghosted or even captured, and if you didn't come with us- well, I don't like the chances of two of us against hundreds,” he said logically, and his calm voice just made Frank angrier. “You don't understand, Star- this is  _my_ fault! I have to  _fix_  this, because if we’re too late and they're both dead, I will  _never_  be able to forgive myself,” he hissed, and Ray frowned. “Who exactly is this other guy, anyway? Are you sure we can trust him?”

“This  _other guy_  is the only reason I didn't get captured too. He could have gotten away, too, but he dropped the gun he had so they didn't shoot Kobra,” Frank sighed, shuffling around on the table. Show Pony had told him not to move his leg much, but the table wasn't comfortable in any way. Ray just looked confused. “When I was driving away, I saw the guy – his name’s Dance – with a gun in hand and a clear path to one of the drac’s bikes. He could have gotten away right then; he’s a better shot than all of us, he would have easily made it. But a Scarecrow had Mikey on his knees with a gun against his chin, threatening to shoot if Dance didn't drop the weapon. He could have turned around and made it, but he dropped the gun and let himself be handcuffed so they didn't shoot Kobra,” he elaborated. Ray nodded slowly. “Okay, definitely worth saving. And- we will get him back, Ghoul, I promise. One way or another.”

It turns out the situation was definitely any other way to the ways they were expecting, because a few seconds later, Cola kicked the door open. “Clear the tables, Star!” he shrieked, waving the pink lantern at them in distress. “What’s going-”

“ _Kobra_!” was the only response, and Ray jumped off and swept the maps off of the table before Cola could blink. He stood to the right of the door, beckoning in an extremely dusty-  _Pete_! It was Pete, and he had Mikey on his back! His body was limp, which was utterly terrifying at first, but Frank could see the rise and fall of his chest, so he was still alive. “Star, go get Pony and Poison, but also be prepared to physically remove Poison if he gets in my way, okay?” Cola instructed, and Ray nodded. Obviously trying really hard not to hurt him, Pete and Cola lay Mikey down on the table before Pete sat on the floor. “Dance, the fuck?” Frank called down. “Ghoul, hey. ‘Been walking since Zone 4 with him. Legs’re tired,” he sighed, slumping against the leg of the table Mikey was on. “Can you tell me his injuries, Dance?” Cola asked from somewhere above him, and Pete coughed into his hand again, frowning at the flecks of blood that appeared. His lip was bleeding  _again._  “Shot in the edge of his arm, stabbed in the arm, small burns ‘n cuts on his neck and large gashes on his back ‘cause Korse whipped him,” he sighed. Frank involuntarily stiffened at the mention of his name, and then found himself having to pull Ray’s head onto his shoulder in an attempt to keep him calm. Cola seemed to notice the bad reaction soon after, gently tapping Pete’s shoulder and murmuring a “Try and avoid saying his name; it can trigger all kindsa bad reactions round everyone in the zones.” Pete nodded and muttered and apology to Frank (who gave him a small smile in return but was kind of busy clinging on to Ray to make sure he stayed calm. Ray’s parents had both been ghosted by Korse when he was a child.) “Star, do you want me to go and get them, or can you?”

“I’ll go,” he said, but it took some gentle coaxing for him to get up off of the table.

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+

Pete’s face was aching, and one of his eyes was so swollen that it hurt every time he blinked. Mikey still hadn't woken up and he didn't know if Planetary was alive or not. He wanted Patrick, goddammit.

“Are you injured too?” someone said from somewhere above him, and he forced himself to nod. “Broken fingers, maybe just dislocated. Strained ankle. Need stitches on my back, please,” he managed, and he felt someone grab him and lift him up by the arm, immediately dropping him when he let out an unholy cry of pain that kind of resembled the sound a dying pig would make. “Okay, buddy, that’s a dislocated shoulder. Can ya stand up by yourself?” asked the voice, and he was pretty sure it was the person Cola had called Show Pony last time he’d seen them. They weren't wearing the helmet this time, and when Pete shook his head they were more than happy to effortlessly lift him up by the waist and onto the table. “Pony, where’s Poison? I’m guessing he-”

“Poison came into my room to announce it was ‘she’ a few minutes ago, then left to look for her skirt. You’re right, though, she’ll definitely wanna know that the Kiddo’s safe and sound. I think Jet was looking for her when he found me. Whattabout you, demigod? Still cruising through the boy division?”

Cola grinned, and Pete could have sworn he blushed a little. “Yeah, thanks for checking up. You wanna take Kobra’s injuries, or you wanna shove Dance’s shoulder and fingers back into their sockets?”

“You’ve always been the more muscular one here, so I’ll let you take the bone crunching, hey?” they hummed, and Cola  _definitely_  blushed at that. Wait- “Bone crunching?” he said weakly, shying away from Cola’s gloved hands. Where he’d gotten the surgical gloves, Pete had no clue. “This will almost definitely hurt, Dance, but then you’ll be fine.”

“That settled my nerves,” he said dryly, but he still scooched over to the edge of the table so Cola could easily sit on the stool next to him. “I need you to breathe deeply and slowly, okay? Here, squeeze this wad of bandages if it hurts,” he instructed, handing Pete a soft bundle of gauze to squeeze in his left fist as the curly-haired Latino guy – Star, his mind supplied – re-entered the room, followed by a girl with neon red hair and an actually non-hideous frilly black miniskirt. Party Poison was the leader, Cola had said, and looking at her, Pete couldn't see anyone else  _but_ the leader. It was obviously her. Without saying anything or looking at anyone else, she walked over to the table Kobra had been lay down on and sat on it, lifting his head onto her lap. Pony didn't object or act like it was a strange thing to do – he just smiled at her and carried on rubbing a weird herb-paste thing onto the burn on Mikey’s arm. “Did you sleep okay?” Frank murmured, reaching over the booth seats to take her hand and smiling softly when she intertwined their fingers. She stopped running her free hand through Mikey’s hair to make an airy hand gesture. “Iffy. Kept waking up. Final time was a switch.”

Frank nodded at her miniskirt and pink doc martins. “So today’s a Gee day?” he said gently, and Pete didn't know what that meant, but it made the girl grin and nod, so it was probably a cool thing to say. “You look really pretty, y’know,” he muttered, and the girl went pink and mumbled something about not wearing any makeup because Pony had taken it all (they just shook their head and pointed at Cola.) “Doesn't matter. Still the prettiest girl I know,” then “ _MotherFUCKER,_ ” because Pete is the queen of ruining romantic moments and Cola doesn't give any warning when he’s about to relocate your finger. “Give a dude a warning!” Pete moaned, tugging his hand out of Cola’s and checking the use of his index finger. Swollen, but usable. Cola just rolled his eyes and muttered  _wimp_  under his breath.

“Who’re you?” asked the girl, frowning at him slightly. “Dance,” he said first, then “I carried your brother here,” because he couldn't say  _I don't even think I know who I am anymore._  “Oh,” she nodded. “Thank you for helping him.” It was evident she wasn't quite sure about him yet (curly-hair-guy too was obviously having some minor doubts,) but Frank didn't seem to pick up on it. “You saved my fuckin’ life, man. Both of our lives. I never got to thank you for it, but-”

“’s no biggie,” Pete muttered, groaning as another one of his fingers clicked back into place. “You shared your hospital space wi’me, you got back my stuff from that bitch-ass nurse and you even offered to help me get to Cola, which I know you didn't really want to do-” he stopped to sharply inhale as Cola squeezed his pinky finger. “That one is  _actually_  broken, so once I’ve sorted your shoulder, I’ll tape it up to your ring finger.” Pete nodded. He’d dislocated his shoulder during Physical Education at school when he was fourteen, and back then, getting it put back in its socket was one of the worst pains he’d ever felt. He wasn't looking forward to what was about to happen. It wasn't as bad as he’d remembered it, thank god, but it still hurt enough for him to make an embarrassing whining noise when Cola jolted his arm and the sickening click that came with it echoed in the otherwise quiet diner.

“Where’s the Kiddo’s shirt? This ain’t his,” Show Pony hummed, holding up Pete’s jacket, then completely disregarding it on the floor when they looked back at Mikey (who had been lifted into a sitting position to have the jacket removed then turned over to lie on his front.) The girl had her hands over her mouth and had started to cry at that point, Pony instantly dashing over to the med box on Frank’s table. “Poison, baby, I think it would be best if you waited with Dr. D until Pony’s done,” Frank spoke up, but she ignored him and carried on clinging to her younger brother. “It’s m-my fault this happened- if I’d just insisted that we went  _with_  him then he’d be  _fine_ , I-”

“Poison,  _please_ , I need you to leave,” they said desperately, starting to soak a reasonably sized square of flannel in the bucket of disinfectant. She kept shaking her head and cradling his, her tears starting to make marks on her t-shirt. “Come on, Gee,” Star whispered, effortlessly reaching over and scooping her up, squeezing her until she stopped weakly resisting and carrying her out of the room. Frank looked heartbroken. Cola looked worried. Pony looked determined. “Stop helping me, go help him,” Pete coughed, sliding off of the table and slowly walking over to where the plastic bags were lying on the floor. Most of the contents had been strewn all over the floor, but the three fabric squares were folded up neatly on the nearest table, and Pete’s backpack was sitting on a chair next to it. It was open, and the contents had obviously been rummaged through, but whoever it was still neatly put everything back, which he was thankful for.

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+

 Awareness swum into focus slowly.

Thinking was hard, and it didn't really seem to get easier. Mikey was fuzzy and so tired and he’s aware, in a vague dreamy way, of a tidal wave of pain waiting just outside the soft dark bubble of unconsciousness. He’s warm, too, warm and comfortable and there was someone humming tunelessly somewhere off to his side. He tried to move and the pain spilt in a little bit, just a sharp ache all over his back that forced a tiny pained noise from him.

The humming cut off, replaced by the sound of someone moving closer to him. He can’t think enough to open his eyes, but he’s pretty sure he’s lying on his stomach; head turned to the side and pressed against a cool surface. Nebulously he became aware of someone warm leaning over him and the sensation of a hand pressing gently to his forehead. It’s gone a moment later, and there’s more rustling.

“Go back to sleep,” he thinks he heard someone murmur, and he slips back into the quiet darkness gratefully.

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+

The room’s practically silent, the only strong sound being Mikey’s raspy breaths. They were comforting, in a way, like falling asleep on a soft pillow. Pete hadn't slept on a soft pillow in  _years_. Show Pony had finished sluicing the blood and dust from his back (which was much worse than Pete had hoped it would be,) and had then skated out of the room, only leaving Pete and Frank with the instruction to a) come and get them and b) not let Mikey move if he were to wake up again, which they deemed unlikely. After about fifteen minutes of empty but not really uncomfortable silence, Frank excused himself to go and check on Gee. Pete was tired too, he wanted to go and lie down with someone too, but he also wanted to stay with Mikey. It was his fault Mikey’s back was a barely-scabbing mess, so he was morally obligated to stay by his side until he was better (or, at least until he woke up.)

He sighed, fiddling with the scrap of fabric supporting his arm. Having to wear a sling in the desert was so impractical that it usually wasn't worth going out of shelter in the first place because- well, without two hands you couldn't do pretty much  _anything_. You couldn't shoot, because the kickback of the gun would probably strain your other wrist if you didn't use both hands. You couldn't drive or fight or climb, and there wasn't really much else to do. “He looks so peaceful, right?” hummed a voice from behind him. Pete turned to meet eyes with the curly haired guy. “I recognise you,” Pete replied, because he could hardly say  _yeah, he looks beautiful._ “Toro, right?”

The guy narrowed his eyes slightly. “Yeah... How do-”

“How do I know you? I don't know, man, I used to know a lot of people. Were you the kid who got a crayon stuck in his nose in school?”

The guy laughed, crinkles forming around his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I am- I was trying to impress a girl, by the way. I wasn't just sticking a crayon in my nose, I swear!

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he yawned, attempting to rub his eye before remembering the sling. “You tired?” Toro asked, holding out a hand so he could stand up. Pete ignored the hand and carried on sitting by Mikey’s side. “You don't have to stay by his side until he wakes up, man.”

“Yeah I do. ‘s my fault.”

“How is any of this your fault? On the contrary, I thought it was your ‘fault’ they both ended up alive!”

“It was my plan that ended up not working. If I’d just-”

“If you’d just  _what,_ exactly? Gotten yourself killed? As much as feeling shitty for something that wasn't even your fault, it isn’t going to make anything better. You know what will make something better?”

“What?”

“Getting some rest. You can help yourself to the water, as long as you don't have too much, and I'm sure someone will be able to spare a cracker or two if you ask nicely. Just-” he paused to sigh, his face softening from slight annoyance to what may have even been sincere concern. “Go and sleep. Please.”

 


	5. the author is trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know what you’re doing?” Gee asked, shifting around in her paint-splattered doc-martens. “Nope,” Pete said cheerfully, “but I’ll work it out soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i forgot this existed for a short amount of time but i have so many assignments and WOPs running that i probably won't update until after christmas i'm super sorry i WILL update tho i won't just be like 'yeah i'll update soon' and then never update. if i plan on abandonning this i'll take it down. word.

There actually wasn't a light, contrary to his first assumption. The room he was in was a stark white colour with tiled walls and a low ceiling, splatters of red decorating his creepy surroundings from wherever he turned. The only visible doorway out lead to a similar looking corridor, the only difference being the imprints in the dust on the floor that he really, really hoped weren't feet. Upon hearing what sounded awfully like a few footsteps, Mikey's hand shot down to his gun holster- that was, of course, to find it completely empty. Before he'd escaped the city for the first time, he'd been afraid of the dark. Now he took comfort in the silent shadows, purely because being in them meant being safe. Harsh white and bright light now only spelt out danger.

Wait- there it was again, just five or six footsteps shattering the deafening silence and definitely closer than last time. "Micaela?" a voice called, and Mikey froze in place. "I know you're in here, sweetie. Why are you hiding?" was what came next, and Mikey was close to tears- he's been here before. He knew what was about to happen, and the sickly voice trying to sugar coat it was just making it worse.  _Shock therapy_ , something whispered. These were the same rooms, the same hallways that he'd been condemned to when he was fifteen and he'd tried to tell his mom he was a boy.  _Shock therapy_ , he heard a little louder and no, no, he wasn't doing this again, he wouldn't. Mikey shot around the corner, only to come face to face with the therapist who'd tried her best to fix him in the four years that he'd been in there.  _Shock therapy_ , she mouthed, but the loud voice wasn't hers. She was still wearing her pastel pink dress with heels, and it was shitty in the same way that the men's uniform was a deep blue suit.  _Shock therapy_ , the voice taunted, and it was shouting now. There was a permanent smile etched onto her face and she was waving a loaded syringe at him -- he knew the contents well enough, the purpose of the glistening purple liquid. It was a body mobilizing syrup, the one they used to force you into a strap-chair if you refused to cooperate.  _Shock therapy_ , it screamed.  _Shock therapy_ ,  _shock therapy, shock therapy_  and his mind was screaming and he was screaming and she was still grinning and-

"Kobra! Kobra!" a voice shouted. Acting on instinct, he scrambled backwards as far as he could, blindly reaching for where his gun should have been when he hit the wall. "Woah, kiddo, eyes on me!" the voice countered again, and Mikey focused on looking past his shaky hands holding up a gun that wasn't his and over to Show Pony, who had their hands raised and a worried expression on their face. "You're safe now, Kobra! I promise nothing can hurt you," they pleaded, but Mikey kept his shaky hands in place. "B-but- but I wa-w-was in-"

"Dance got you out, kiddo- I swear on my life that you are in the Diner and that you are safe! Just please, put the gun down." The second he let the unfamiliar gun drop to the ground, Pony rushed over. "Hey, you're okay. You were shouting the place down, kiddo."

"Oh." Mikey swallowed, resting his head in the crook of their neck. "N-nightmare." Wait- Pete brought him here?  That meant he was alive! "Wh-Where's P-D-Dance?"

"He's resting, I think. You should too."  Mikey quickly shook his head. He was cold, achy and he didn't know where his shirt was. "Outside," he muttered, and he could see Dr D sitting and sipping at a juice-box out in the sun. "Sunshine. I- I wanna b-be out-outside," he managed, sliding off of the table and into a standing position. Why did his legs feel so stiff? Why was the doorway sliding to the left? "Woah, dude. I gotcha, kiddo," Pony said from behind him, and oh, their arms slung around his waist was apparently the only reason he hadn't fallen over. "Th-the- the fuck?" he asked, and Pony chuckled in his ear. "Your body is exhausted. You're dehydrated. You're in pain, and you need to heal, and to do that you have to rest."

Mikey rolled his eyes, shrugging off their hands and instead leaning heavily onto the back of one of the booth seats. "I'm g-going oust- outside. Eith-either help me or-o-or don't," he insisted, and managed to get about three shaky steps closer to the door before he heard Show Pony sigh seriously over-dramatically. "Wait, asshole. Your sister is in tears worried over you, kiddo. At least sit here whilst I go get her- then you can go outside with Dr. Death. Alright?" they asked dryly, but Mikey could see the concern in their eyes, so he sat down and nodded again. They gave him a small smile, skating out of the room before he could change his mind. Why Pony insisted on never taking of their skates, nobody but Dr. D knew, but all Mikey could say for certain was that in the many years he (and everyone else, for that matter) had known them, he'd never once seen them fall over. It was practically natural for them to be wearing their skates 24/7- Mikey could easily call it unnatural for Pony to be in regular shoes. Wheels were good for being out and about in different desert dwells, though, and that was something they did a lot.

"Mikey?" someone whispered from behind him, and although he should have been alert because she'd used his name, he couldn't bring himself to be mad because he hadn't seen Gee for a day and a half now, and that was too long. The second he shifted himself around, gentle arms were slung around him and there was a shock of red hair in his face. "N-no, Gee, you-you'll get blood on y-you," he whispered, clinging back to her when she whispered back "I don't give a flying fuck," then a few seconds later "I love you, you prick."

"I love you t-too. You l-look r-really- really pr-pretty, by the- th-the way." She nodded onto his shoulder, accidentally pressing down onto the slash on his shoulder and making him unwillingly let out a hiss. "Shit- fuck, Kobra, I'm so sorry!" she gasped, jumping back away from her younger brother. "D-don't- don't worry ab-about it."

Gee swallowed, fiddling with the hem of her t-shirt. "What-" she tried, falling silent for a few seconds before opening her mouth again. "What happened down there?" she asked quietly. Mikey knew she didn't really understand when he shook his head. "L-later," he muttered. He wanted to be alone, just for a little bit. To sit outside and forget. He wanted everyone else to act like nothing had happened, just for a little bit. To not whisper and tiptoe around him as if scared of him breaking if they said something too forward, even though that was what Gee did every single time something went wrong. He wasn't angry at her or anything, she was really trying to help him and he got that -- she just  _wasn't_  helping.

Sitting outside on a deckchair in the sun surprisingly was helping. Dr. Death Defying had tried to talk to him, but Mikey was pretty sure he'd conveyed that he wanted to be left alone by the at first please shut up looks he sent out that ended up turning into some of the darkest glares he'd ever given.  Dr. D had gone back inside now, leaving Mikey alone on the blue canvas deckchair with half a juice-box and a pair of sunglasses with a crack in the corner. "Hey, Kobra. Torosaur brought back an apple, you wanna bite?" Frank said with his head poking around the corner of the board. Frank understood not wanting to talk about things big-time, and Mikey was thankful for that. "Is it r-real?" Mikey sighed in response, rolling his head up off of his shoulder and looking over in Frank's direction. Frank grinned at him before taking a satisfying bite out of the red sphere, and Mikey could practically feel the crunch under his tongue. "Oh, fuck yes," Frank breathed, licking his lips and relaxing against the wall. "It's been so long since I've had food that hasn't been processed into mulch."

"You sh-should go with m-me- me- and Gee to the ne-neutral towns -- th-they usually spare us a- a- a meal," Mikey smiled, happily excepting the apple he was handed. It smelt fresh and like happy organic things that don't really exist anymore. "Nah, they can't dig my tattoos. They like you 'cause the kids like you and you look all neat and shit. The kids like me, but they dislike how I make their little ones want the pretty pictures on their own arms," he chuckled, holding out his arm and inspecting it in the sunlight. "Shame," Mikey sighed, but he meant it, he really did, because Frank was amazing with little kids. Even better than Gee, in some circumstances, not that he'd ever say that.  "Yeah... You should take Dance with you, next time ya go down. He mentioned something about missing being around kids."

"I- I don't- I don't know what th-the locals w-would think," Mikey hummed, passing back the apple and grinning when Frank refused. "You finish it. You guys need to go down to the mechanic neutrals, anyway. Star's spark plugs are all fizzed out, and we need more."

"Alright. W-when d'you n-need them by?"

"Well... there's no specific date or anything, but the quicker we get 'em, the quicker we can build a portal to the BCU, which will help us so, so much. So basically as soon as you're well enough to go."

"I c-can- I can g-go now, then," Mikey insisted, jumping up from his seat and casually leaning against the wall when the world tilted a little. Frank snorted, holding an arm out for Mikey to lean on. "Yeah, right. You leave blood marks on everything you lean against, but you're absolutely fine."

"Shut th-the fuck u-up," he frowned, shrugging his hands off of Frank's arms and (with great difficulty he tried not to show) pushing the board up so he could go back inside. There wasn't any blood on that, was there? "Look- you can say whatever you want, Kobra, but we're not letting you go out until you're better. Until we think you're better," he added when Mikey opened his mouth again. "I don't want to go next time," Gee said from behind them, beckoning Mikey closer so she could change the cloth strips wrapped around his torso, because he'd convinced Show Pony that it was a waste of bandages if it was just to stop bleeding. "Wha-what? Why?"

"There's a creepy dad that pinches my ass whenever I'm in a skirt. No thank-you," she sighed, wincing at his back and the marks on them -- he was pretty sure they'd just started to close up. "That only leaves Dance, then- right? Star will only go if anyone else is out, Dr. D's chair doesn't fit through the doorways, Cola and Pony are terrified of kids and all the adults there hate me," Frank noted, hopping up onto the table and grinning as Gee finished up with the cloth and turned to him. "You look hot as fuck in this skirt, by the way,” he said darkly, wrapping his hands around her ass and pulling her in between his legs. Mikey cleared his throat as they touched foreheads, gruffly sighing when they ignored him and scrambling out of the room when they started making out.

“Hey, Kobra, you ‘right?” Ray hummed, sticking his head out of the mechanics room. His hair was pushed back with a bandana and there were smudges of coal and god knows what across his face and his hands. “Yeah,” Mikey sighed, smirking when he caught sight of him. “Y-you- you’ve got something all- a-all over your fa-f-face,” he grinned, and Ray frowned. “That’s... unfortunate, considering that I don't have a mirror. Good to see you're awake, though. Do- do you have something I can wipe my face with?” he sighed, and Mikey shook his head. “Ah, well... Cola’s in the studio, I think, along with Dr. Death. Show Pony’s gone out to Chow Mein’s for the day, and the new guy’s asleep in the bedroom.”

“Thanks. D-do- do you have any-a-anymore post-post-it notes?”

Ray frowned again, more concerned than anything else. “You know you can just tell me what’s up, right? I’m right here-”

“N-not for now. In case. F-for later,” Mikey cut in, because he liked knowing he had extra without having to ask for them when he needed them. Mikey did this- this  _thing_ , but it wasn't a  _thing_  as such, more of a  _not-thing_. He- for some reason he didn't know and didn't talk about, he couldn’t voice if he felt shitty. The only thing  _was_ , he usually got yelled at (out of love, he knew that) if he didn't let them know that he was feeling bad, so he would write it down and stick it on the doorframe of the diner. The others (Frank especially) had gotten into the habit of checking the doorframe every time they walked past it by now, which- which  _helped_  in some significant way, but it wasn't the same as being able to just announce it, whatever  _it_  was. Ray could do it with no trouble at all – but then again, maybe it was only that way because everyone could instantly tell when he was upset because he’d cease talking, smiling or breathing too loud (unless he was having an attack) until somebody asked him what was up. Gee could do it well enough if somebody  _asked_ her- she’d never managed to bring it into conversation, but she never denied anything. Frank, on the other hand, did deny practically all accusations, but he did it in an angry, indignant way that made it easy to tell. Mikey couldn't. He didn't want to bother anyone.

+=-_-=-_-=-_-=-_-=+

Andy put down his paper as Pete shot up from the mattress. “Dreams again?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. Pete blinked again, and Andy was gone, along with the bed and the motel room they stayed in for the first few months in the zones.

In his place were Mikey and Ray, but neither of them were acknowledging him on the floor. “Can’t you just come to me  _later_ , then?” Ray said in a hushed whisper, running a hand through his hair. Mikey shook his head, shifting his weight. “Y-you kno-ow I- I ca-can’t,” he whispered back, raising his shoulders uncomfortably. “Look, I- You aren't bothering us, Mikes, I promise. You can go and get them if you want, but- can you just  _try_  – next time – to talk to one of us?” he pleaded, and Mikey’s face went slack. “I- I  _do_ t-try,” he whispered, so quiet Pete had to strain to hear it, and then pushed past Ray to leave the room. Ray himself sighed and sunk his head into his hands, smudging the black substance on his face and hands (coal or oil, Pete wasn't quite sure) even more. “I have a mirror, if you want to check up on your face,” he piped up, chuckling when Ray jumped about a foot into the air. “How long were you awake? And yes, thank you, that would be great.”

“Long enough to know enough to want to know more.”

Ray frowned, excepting the mirror shard Pete handed to him after having dug it out of the rucksack. “Somehow, I understood that. Holy shit, this really is all over my face!" he exclaimed, licking one of his fingers and rubbing it on his nose. "...and I just made it so much worse, fuck."

"Great look, dude. Are you gonna explain the whole Kobra thing?" Pete prompted, leaning back against the dust-covered wall and happily watching Ray fail miserably at cleaning his face.

"It- he's determined that it isn't a  _thing_ , if you know what I mean. He says it isn't significant enough to really matter, it just  _happens_ ," he sighed, wiping his arm across his face and effectively giving himself a monobrow of oil. "Have you got any tissues?"

Pete reached into his pocket and pulled out a half empty packet of BL/ind branded tissues. "Help yourself. And what  _happens_?"

Ray took a deep breath, spitting on the the tissue and wiping it across his head. It actually worked this time, leaving a practically clear trail where there had been grime a few seconds before. " Kobra has- he has this thing where he can't talk to people when he's upset. We -- me and Ghoul, that is -- think that it's got something to do with his stammer, but that's definitely not just it. It gets worse when he's scared, and a hell of a lot worse when he's angry or upset, so it's probably part of the reason. But because he seems to be unable to talk to us, to any of us, he used to just bottle it up until he literally couldn't take it anymore. When Gee kind of figured this out, she got really mad and told him he wasn't allowed to anymore. Protective older siblings, you know." Pete nodded, although he really didn't know at all -- he was an only child. Maybe he did kind of get it, because anyone who had ever insulted Patrick (or Joe - Andy could take care of himself) had ended up with some form of a broken bone. "Even after she said that, though, he still couldn't- can't, he still can't speak up about it 'cause he has this stupid crippling fear of making people worried or bothering them about himself. So Cola came up with the post-it note system. If he needs to talk to someone then he just puts one on the door frame of the door to the diner and sits in a closed off space until somebody comes to find him," Ray finished, and he'd somehow managed to get pretty much all of the grease off with one tissue. "If you're staying, you should probably get in the habit of checking the door every time you walk through."

"Okay, I- wait, you're letting me stay? Dude!" Pete exclaimed, because he really didn't have anywhere else new to go, and he couldn't face going back to anywhere he'd been with Patrick. "That's- holy fuckshit, dude, that's so, so amazing!" he cried in disbelief when Ray nodded. "Well, I figured you had nowhere else to go, and both Kobra and Ghoul want you to stay. I'm cool with it, Cola and Pony are cool with it and Dr. D won't mind as long as you're helpful."

"Thank you, man!" Pete grinned, then "What about Gee?" because he truly couldn't help but wonder. The look on Ray's face said it all. "She'll come around soon enough." Pete hoped that was true, because he really, desperately wanted to stay. “Is there anything I can do to help now, then?”

Ray frowned for a second, shifting the strip of fabric he’d tied his hair up with and scratching his head. “How are you with machinery? We need to fix a motorcycle, and I've been trying my best ‘n all, but I’m really, really shit at it.” Pete grinned, twisting the mirror shard round in his hand. “You’re in luck, my friend. Just show me the motor.”

-

Pete liked working with engines, albeit one-handedly. Engines were usually predictable and easy to understand, not at all like people. If there was a problem with your engine, you could fix it. You can’t just fix people. “What are you doing?” a quiet voice piped up from behind him, making him jump and drop the wrench he was holding. Whether it was the desert heat or how much he’d been working, all Pete knew was that he was unbearably hot (and he’d already taken his shirt off.) “I am deconstructing this engine so I can find out what’s up with it and hopefully fix it.” Gee nodded, hopping up onto the workbench by the door and crossing her legs. “You saved my brother,” she told him, as if he didn't already know. He nodded, because he couldn't think of a non-sarcastic answer and he needed Gee to like him. “Why? Frankie told me what had happened, and if you’d timed it right you could of gotten away unscathed if you hadn't gone back for him.” That was true, in itself, and Pete didn't really know why he’d decided he couldn't leave without Mikey at first. It quickly became obvious that Mikey would have been tortured to insanity if he’d been  _left_  there, which was why Pete had carried him, but he hadn't known that at the start. “I guess so,” was an annoyingly vague answer, but he gave it anyway. The shell of the engine cleanly opened up on his lap, and he lay down the different pieces on the rag to get a closer look at them. Nothing seemed to be missing or severely damaged, which was good. “It was a spur of the moment thing, I guess. At first, anyway. They said I could go, but if I went they’d shoot him on the spot. He’d done the same for me a few minutes earlier, so I couldn't just leave him.” She nodded as he swiped his arm across his forehead. He needed a shower.

“At first?” she prompted, fingers tapping out in a silent but consistent tune on the top of the workbench. “Oh, right. That was the reason at first, but then when we got in there, I-” he swallowed, putting down the wrench and sitting on his knees (it wasn't a drastic movement because he’d previously been walking around on his knees.) “There were two separate rooms, but the wall actually separating them was just a few metal bars that I could have squeezed through if there weren't two scarecrows wielding fucking pistols and shit in his room. He- can I say his name? Cola told me not to, but-”

“Korse? Yeah, doesn't really bother me. It’s Jet and Kobra you gotta really watch out for. Carry on, anyway.”

“Korse started with me first- in the room, at least. They took us through the front entrance to the city HQ and he was there. He didn't really acknowledge me until I told him to fuck off, but- they were  _torturing_  him, Gee. It was so much more than just hurting him. I mean- they shoved me around quite a bit, but nothing to deep, and they pretty much stopped when they realised I truly didn't know anything. He- Korse is a  _cunt_ ,” Pete spat, and why he was getting so angry he had no idea. “He kept using Kobra’s birthname a-and the wrong pronouns and he looked so  _hurt_ , Jesus fuck,” he managed, twisting the bolt he’d found on the floor through his fingers. Gee didn't say anything, just continued staring at her knees. “He- he made him take his shirt off, and the bandages and he kept asking him about his scars and poking at them and- he was  _enjoying_ it, Gee,” he said desperately. “Oh,” was all she said in response. Pete wiped the grease from his hands onto his t-shirt and tossed it up on the bench there wasn't anyone sat on.  “Thanks for telling me what happened,” was what she eventually came up with, hopping off of the bench and walking over to where he was kneeling over the deconstructed engine. “Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked, shifting around in her paint-splattered pink doc-martens. “Nope,” he said, a little more cheerfully, “but I’ll work it out soon.”

A few minutes after Gee had left, Mikey came in. He was still a sickly pale and shaking a little, but he still offered a smile back to Pete when he grinned at him.  _Tell me what you’re doing_ , he signed, sitting himself down next to Pete. “Star asked me to take a look at the motorcycle engine ‘cause he’s apparently really shit at fixing them. So I took it all apart and started to take a look at each individual piece,” he stated, indicating at the rag with the different engine parts strewn across it. “A-and?” Mikey prompted, and Pete could see how annoyed he was at how long he’d taken to say it (he’d opened his mouth a good seven seconds before any sound had come out.) “It’s actually a lot better than Star made it out to be. Only one thing is broken beyond repair, and it’s easily replaceable, so it doesn't matter. The main problem was the blockage in the oil feed pipe. See that huge wad of black gunk in this pipe? That’s oily tar. Whoever rode it last got some synthetic plastic up in there, and it took most of the moisture from the plant-based fuel you’re using, leaving behind a massive blockage of rotting tar that smells absolutely hideous. The timing gear needs a few twists, and I’m like 90% sure the crank shaft was upside down. Where the hell did you get this bike, man?”

 _Star built it. Or at least he tried to build it. We know the women who run the black market bazaar and they give us free engine stuff if nobody else wants it,_  he signed, poking at the gunk Pete had started scooping out. Pete laughed as he instantly recoiled and shook his finger with a disgusted look on his face. “If he built it from scratch then that’s still pretty fucking sweet, dude. One of the springs inside the piston is busted, so that’ll need replacing, but once I’ve got that we’re good to go. You doing okay?” he hummed, wiping the grease from his hands and jumping up. Mikey only realised he was staring when Pete pulled his shirt back on.

 


End file.
